


There Will Always Be Blood

by MyPinkCactus



Series: Here and Now [2]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Action & Romance, Action/Adventure, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Boyfriends, Canon compliant until 6x16, Canon-Typical Violence, Domestic Fluff, Drama, Established Relationship, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Fanart, Flashbacks, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Heavy Angst, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, Illustrated, Kissing, Love, M/M, Minor Character Death, Original Character(s), POV Alternating, POV Daryl Dixon, POV Jesus (Walking Dead), Past Rape/Non-con, Romance, Sequel, Smut, Weekly Updates, blowjob, handjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-08
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-01-31 01:56:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 125,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12665925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyPinkCactus/pseuds/MyPinkCactus
Summary: It's been a year since the war against the saviors, and after months of hard work, calm has returned to the three communities—even for Daryl and Paul who seem to have gotten used to the strange adventure of living together. But if there is something that all of them have learned from this new world, it’s never wise to let your guard down. Sooner or later, demons could come back, and no matter what you try to do, good or evil, there will always be blood.





	1. COVER

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AbigailHT](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AbigailHT/gifts).



> It has took me more time and headaches than I thought I could handle, but here is finally the sequel to Here and Now. I hope you all are able to enjoy this new ride, at least, as much as the last one!
> 
> I want to thank especially [AbigailHT](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AbigailHT/pseuds/AbigailHT) for helping me with this, for filling those exasperating blank moments, for your great ideas and for your exhausting work editing my messy translations. I couldn't have done this without you, you evil editor persona and comma freak ♥
> 
> I also want to thank [CanonCannon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanonCannon/pseuds/CanonCannon) for beta reading this, your comments and grammatical suggestions have been of great help! And again thanks to **AbigailHT** and [annyanka-x-o](https://annyanka-x-o.tumblr.com/) for their beautiful illustrations. I love you all ♥


	2. PART I




	3. 01

10 DAYS AGO.

 

The shadows of the walls of Hilltop prolonged with the passing minutes of the early evening hovering over the colony. The sky had turned an intense orange color, a warm image that contrasted with the cold October breeze, which had awakened with rage as soon as the sun's rays had begun to hide behind the mountains.

Paul was by the trapdoor, located in a strategic area of the walls behind Barrington House. He had been standing there for a long time without moving, the only apparent sign of life was the movement of his clothes whipping in the air, while his eyes rested on the bouquet of fresh flowers he had laid on the damp ground. It had been eighteen months since Abbie had passed away and although Paul had begun to get used to not thinking too much about that damn twenty-seven number, he didn’t want to depart the next day without leaving new flowers there.

The muffled sound of footsteps pulled him out of his thoughts. He didn’t need to turn around to know who it was; he could recognize Daryl’s way of walking even with his eyes closed.

Daryl stopped a few feet from him, and waited for a few seconds before starting to walk again, passing Paul, and crouching to leave another bunch of flowers next to his. Paul smiled gently, watching him. "Your flowers are more beautiful than mine," he said serenely.

"Of course, I have better taste than you."

"I won’t argue with that, after all, I fell for you and you fell for me—enough to form a verdict."

Daryl turned to give Paul a disdainful look; then he smiled and rose to stand next to him, putting an arm around his shoulder and pulling him closer. Their hips hit harder than Daryl had probably intended, but Paul didn’t resist the little hug, grateful to have him there.

Neither of them said anything for a long minute, but the uneasiness that came from them was as restless as the autumnal air reddening their cheeks. It wasn’t the first time they would be apart since they'd begun that strange adventure together. In fact, they spent most of their days without seeing each other; each of them engaged in their tasks at the service of the community.

During the past months, Daryl had become the supervisory head in the preparation and training of new patrols, whereas Paul was in charge of security work, studying new ways of keeping Hilltop under the halo of tranquility that had surrounded them since the end of the war with the saviors.

It was exactly that calmness of their daily lives which had increased Maggie's urgency to build a school for the children, who spent most of their days loitering around, without anything productive to occupy their minds.

Paul and Tara had volunteered to go out in search of all the necessary equipment. Two weeks. That was the time they had agreed upon. Not one day more, not one day less. A period of fourteen days that would be the longest that Paul and Daryl would spend without seeing each other since Daryl had awakened, stunned with a gunshot wound in his shoulder, in one of Barrington House’s rooms.

"We'll be back before you know it," Paul said after a while.

"Cocky little shit, you talk as if you think I'm gonna miss you."

Paul turned to stare at him, the corner of his mouth curved slightly. "I _know_ you're going to miss me, you stubborn archer."

Daryl shook his head. "Gonna have the whole bed for me, and there won’t be a fucking gadfly asking— _demanding_ me to clean my boots every time I wanna get in the trailer. I think, I win."

"I bet you'd be happy living in the pigsty with the pigs."

"Sure, they snore less than you."

"Did you know that their orgasms can last for half an hour?"

Daryl arched an eyebrow and snorted. Then he stepped forward and cupped Paul's face with both hands.

"I’ve also read that—"

"Fuck’s sake, Paul, shut up," he said, catching his lips.

Paul grinned against Daryl's mouth, his heart pounding in his chest. He was an independent man, always had been. He was not one of those people afraid to spend time alone or work on his own, but he knew he was going to miss Daryl more than he was probably willing to admit out loud.

Daryl then stepped back and put a hand in one of the pockets of his jacket, pulling out a small crumpled paper that he handed to Paul. He took it without taking his eyes off of Daryl, looking for some kind of hint, but Daryl kept his eyes fixed on the package.

"It's for you," he finally said.

Paul smiled invaded by a strange mixture of nerves, excitement, and confusion. He was not used to Daryl giving him things; it was obvious that gifts had never been a part of his life, so Paul was not sure what to expect from whatever was under the mess of crumpled paper.

Paul got rid of a first layer easily, but underneath he only found more paper, and also underneath that one. He raised an eyebrow; Daryl just shrugged.

"Wanted to make it look bigger."

After unwrapping at least four layers of crumpled paper, Paul frowned looking at the small yellow object and then he began to laugh.

"Is this some kind of revenge?" he asked, watching the pin between his fingers.

Daryl shifted his shoulders again, as if the gesture were not important, even though he pursed his lips into a thin line, trying to hide the smile he was struggling with. A few months ago, Paul had gotten into the—irritating, according to Daryl—habit of placing small pins with ridiculous messages on Daryl’s clothes, taking advantage of his careless, almost nonexistent, aesthetic sense. Daryl usually didn’t notice the ornament until someone pointed it out to him, which greatly exasperated him, but amused Paul even more.

"It's for you to put on that stupid coat," Daryl said in a pretended boring tone. "It’s the closest thing to bread I could find, you know? So you don’t forget the way back home like _Jensen and Greta_."

Paul laughed again, shaking his head. "It’s _Hansel and Gretel_."

"Whatever," he said waving his hand casually. "It was a stupid idea either way."

"Well, I'm sure that the birds won’t eat this one at least."

"Sure not."

Paul gave Daryl a warm look and then laid his eyes on the object again. The pin was shaped like a fortune cookie and was surrounded by a white band with the message _‘The world is yours’._

 

 

* * *

 

 

TODAY.

 

Paul smiled broadly, brushing the pin that flashed on the lapel of his leather coat with his thumb while he held a new one he had found to add to Daryl’s collection in his other hand; the silhouette of a feline’s head with the legend, _‘I would rather be at home with my cat’_.

An intense tingling ran through his chest at the thought of Daryl and Cat. Four days, he reminded himself. There were only four days left to go back home and he was barely able to hide the emotion inside him. Yet, he forced himself to close his eyes and calm down. They still had many hours to go and he had to concentrate on the work for which they had volunteered.

He lifted his chin and exhaled deeply, letting the sea breeze and the smell of saltpeter permeate his nostrils. When he opened his eyes again, he was captivated by the sunset that burned the infinite horizon. The waves danced ceaselessly, projecting a relaxing and carefree sound into the air. It was as if nature were not only unaware of all that had happened to humanity, but took advantage of it to grow again, freely, while continuing its course as if she didn’t care at all.

Paul scanned the ghost town scattered beneath him as the sun bid its farewell in the distance. They were in Atlantic City, New Jersey; Paul wondered again what the hell had brought them there. From the very first moment they had started the trip, they had gone north to study those hitherto unexplored areas. It hadn’t been difficult for them to find all sorts of school supplies for the future school Maggie wanted to build. Food and meds were complicated to track down after so long, but the search for desks, blackboards, notebooks, and books had been so easy that they had even been slightly disappointed by the lack of—what Tara had called— _anti-stress action_.

Of course they had found walkers along the way, but nothing they couldn’t handle. So, in view of the time they still had, they had continued their journey aimlessly until Tara had begun to talk about how much she missed the sea, and without even realizing it, they had ended up there.

Paul was on the roof of one of the hospitals in the city. They had planned to explore the building the next day and see if, with a little bit of luck, they could add medical supplies to their already fruitful loot before heading back to Hilltop.

The creaking sound of a door behind him put Paul’s senses on alert. He looked over his shoulder and relaxed when Tara appeared there, moving her black backpack enthusiastically in the air.

"We've been lucky, my friend. Well, I wouldn’t call it luck, because we still had some food, but I found a lot of shit in the vending machines."

Tara sat next to Paul who took the backpack and looked inside. "Snacks, snacks, snacks, sodas, snacks—is that all there was?"

"There were sandwiches too, but you'd better not know what they looked like." Tara grabbed one of the chips bags and opened it putting one of them in her mouth, trying it carefully. "Mmm… not bad. Fuck! I miss eating this shit. You know, lying on the couch on a Sunday afternoon and watching bad movies while you stuff yourself with junk food and beer until your stomach hurts or you lose consciousness."

Paul laughed loudly. "I never had enough free time to enjoy such an afternoon, but I guess I would miss—"

A strange sound a few blocks away interrupted the lively talk suddenly. They went silent, listening.

"Walkers?" Tara asked without a hint of alarm.

"Probably."

Tara shrugged her shoulders. "Well, what were we talking about, again? Oh, yes… I'm sure you miss other things right now."

"And what could that be?" Paul asked, playing dumb and taking the bag of chips out of her hands.

"You know what? Actually, I think you've done Hilltop a favor going out for a few days. I'm convinced they are happy to being able to sleep at night without having to hear all those moans and orgasms."

"What are you talking about? We don’t make that much noise—not all the time, at least."

"Man, I'm talking about showing some compassion with those of us who suffer from abstinence."

They both laughed as Tara pulled a couple of sodas out of the backpack and handed one to Paul. "To the wonderful views and returning home after a well done work," she said.

They hit the cans into an impromptu toast and drank in silence, watching the last moments of sunset. The sea was raging passionately under a mixture of colors and the last rays of the sun glistened on the surface vibrantly.

Minutes later, an unfamiliar sound diverted their attention again. They listened with curiosity and after a few seconds, they looked at each other.

"Do you have the binoculars in there?" Paul asked calmly.

Tara rummaged in the backpack and pulled out the binoculars. Paul picked them up and walked toward one of the corners of the building.

"You see something?"

"No, not from here, and it's starting to get dark."

They remained still for a while. Tara seated while Paul scanned everything that was in his view.

"Will you go back to Hilltop?" Paul asked after a few minutes when nothing else was heard.

"I've always liked to go from one place to another," Tara replied thoughtfully. "I like to travel, but I feel like coming back, yes. I want to see Maggie, little Hershel, and also Daryl—don’t dare to think you're the only one," she added with a wink.

"You're wrong," Paul said, approaching her again. "Cat is the one I actually miss. At least he doesn’t corner me on one side of the bed and keep me from moving all night. He's like a six-foot shackle."

Tara laughed and Paul crouched beside her, picking up his drink. "Maybe he's afraid you'll run away."

Although Paul knew that Tara was only joking, the smile on his lips disappeared quickly. "I would never do that," he said, lowering his voice.

Tara turned slightly to observe him better. "I know you wouldn’t, not intentionally at least. You know what? I've never seen Daryl smile that way since… well, I've never seen Daryl smile that way, period. I'm so glad for both of you, and I really mean it. But let me warn you—if you break his heart, I’ll come for you."

"I don’t doubt it," Paul replied, taking the soda to his lips.

The silence grew around them again. On the horizon, the only memory that remained of the day was an orange strip that faded slowly with the passing minutes. The temperature had also begun to fall accompanied by a cool breeze that made them both tremble.

Paul got up giving the last sips to his drink, and he was about to say something when a new, loud noise set the two of them on alert.

"What the hell is that?" Tara snapped, getting to her feet and following Paul to the other end of the roof of the building. "Could it be people?"

Paul shook his head. "There doesn’t seem to be any settlements nearby and people usually try to go unnoticed—at least the smart ones," Paul pointed out, raising the binoculars even though he was certain he wouldn’t be able to see anything.

"Walkers don’t make so much noise unless something attracts their attention, either."

Paul moved his lips to add something, but the words didn’t come out, instead, a bloodcurdling scream pierced through the early night—before even hearing the second distress call, Paul and Tara were already running toward the access door. They entered the building and descended the thirteen floors barely aware of it. Outside, they ran up the street, guided by the now perfectly audible tumult that cut the air like a sharp knife.

They ran through the streets hastily, meeting with walkers who were attracted by the commotion. Paul could clearly distinguish the anguished cries of at least three different people who were calling each other in despair.

Before turning one of the last corners, Paul grabbed Tara by the arm, pulling the woman to lead her to the opposite side of the nearest building towards a fire escape. He let her up first and then followed her until they reached the roof.

"They're on the other side of that building," Tara exclaimed, pointing to the adjoining block.

"We’ll jump."

"Do you want to jump to the other roof?"

"Come on, it's just a little jump," Paul replied, watching the short distance.

Tara murmured, approaching him. "Can’t we have a damn quiet day?"

"Weren’t you the one complaining about the boring trip?"

"Yes, but I don’t want this kind of action just when we're about to go home!"

Paul didn’t respond, he took a few steps back and ran, jumping to the other building and landing easily on the dusty cement. Then he turned to see Tara close her eyes, catch her breath and run to the edge of the roof to jump. Her feet stumbled as soon as they hit solid ground, but she managed to recover before she lost her balance.

They moved to the other side of the roof and watched the group of walkers crowding the small alley that separated that building from the next with concern. From there, Paul could see six people trapped, struggling to get out of the quagmire they had gotten themselves into, and thought he saw a seventh who had managed to take refuge behind a dumpster. The screams were deafeningly unsettling.

Paul and Tara leapt to the fire staircase that zigzagged over the facade of the building and was right above the tumult. They descended quickly, watching the scene as they pondered their possibilities. They saw that two of the six people trapped were already dead, and the fight against the walkers of three others ended before Paul and Tara could devise an improvised plan.

Tara looked away quickly as the walkers plucked the skin from the face of one of the men, who screamed in panic, pain, and confusion.

Only two were remaining alive at that point: one woman standing on the other side of the alley, cornered in the opening of the emergency door of the opposite building, and the man hiding behind the dumpster under the fire escape.

The woman wielded a knife, killing several of the beings trying to attack her, but it was obvious that the situation was overflowing her, and the anxiety and fear began to weaken her strength.

Tara drew her gun and pointed in that direction, but before she could pull the trigger, one of the walkers clung to the woman's arm, digging its teeth into her bare skin. The scream that came from her throat made both Paul and Tara step back, bumping into the brick wall behind them.

"Fucking shit," Tara snapped.

"Hannah!" the man behind the container shouted.

"We have to get him out of there," Paul said, descending rapidly to the last landing where the stairs hung up about six feet from the ground. "Hey, hey!" Paul tried to catch the man's attention, who seemed to be about to give it all for lost and surrender.

"Hey, buddy!" Tara shouted, standing next to Paul.

The man shook his head, surprised to hear those unexpected voices and looked back and forth trying to find where they were coming from.

"Up here!" Paul exclaimed.

Blinking several times, the man looked up and watched them blankly, as if he thought that this was only a mental delusion.

"Climb up the dumpster; we'll help you get to the stairs!" Paul shouted at him.

The man looked at them, astonished.

"Come on, man, hurry up! Get on the dumpster!" Tara ordered.

The man moved with difficulty in the narrow gap between the heavy metal box and the wall. "I can’t!"

"Yes you can, come on!" Paul urged.

"No… I can’t!"

One of the walkers that had skirted the dumpster stretched an arm trying to sneak into the small space, to reach for the man.

"No. Oh shit!"

The intense echo of a shot bounced in the air and the walker fell back like a lifeless doll. The man recoiled when blood splashed all over him; then he looked up to see Tara holding the gun firmly.

"You fucker! I'm not going to waste any more bullets. Climb up the fucking dumpster!"

The man moved again, grimacing in a clear gesture of pain. "I can’t!" he cried with hardly any strength. "My leg… is hurt!"

"Damn…" Paul mumbled under his breath. "I'm going to get him out of there."

"What?"

Paul took off his leather coat, tossing it aside.

"Dude, if something happens to your ass, Daryl will kill me!"

"Really? You can go and tell Daryl that I don’t need a fucking bodyguard."

Paul stood on the other side of the railing and dropped down on the dumpster with a loud noise. He drew one of his knives, killed some of the walkers around them, and then held out a hand to the man.

"Come on!"

A shadow of doubt crossed the stranger’s face, but he quickly reached out and clung to Paul. The man weighed more than Paul had imagined, though, and he unconsciously exerted resistance as he screamed in pain, forcing Paul to use both hands to try to drag him to the surface.

"Fuck…" Paul grunted.

He firmly grasped the man's arm and finally managed to bring him over the dumpster with a strong pull. However, the inertia made him stumble and fall on his back, landing very close to the edge.

"Jesus!"

Paul rolled to the side to get up, but one of the walkers got hold of his shirt and began pulling him with force. Paul tried to stir and look for his other knife, but he didn’t even have time to draw it—the roar of a new shot pierced his eardrums with the same fury of thunder.

It took him a few seconds to react, as he felt the dampness of the blood of the being on his face. Then he sat up quickly, still stunned and looked at the man who didn’t take his eyes off of him while grasping his right leg. Paul glanced at the iron bar that ran through his thigh from back to front.

"Come on… we have to get to the stairs," Paul said, getting up with difficulty. He approached the man and stood in front of him, interlacing both hands to offer him a foothold. "Come on."

The man hesitated, but then flexed his good leg and put the boot on Paul's hands. As Tara helped him up, Paul looked at all those walkers crowding around him with expressions of hungry despair.

"Jesus!" called Tara.

Paul spun around and jumped to grab one of the railing bars. Tara grabbed him and helped him until he got his whole body up. Paul dropped on the trellis floor of the staircase as soon as he found himself on the other side.

"You alright?" Tara asked, crouching beside him.

Paul took a deep breath, aware of the trouble he had to fill his lungs with air. "Yeah…"

"So, you say you don’t need a bodyguard, huh?"

"Shut up."

"I'm going to tell him, I swear… but first let’s get into the building, we are riling them up, and that will attract the attention of others."

With more effort than expected, Paul stood and grabbed his leather coat, looking at the man who sat on one of the steps—a deep grimace of pain contorted his face. Paul approached him. "Can you walk?"

"It hurts a lot."

"That doesn’t answer my question," Paul said in a sharper tone than was usual for him.

"Jesus."

"I don’t think I can walk a very long distance."

Paul looked at Tara.

"Let's go into the building and think of something while we wait until dawn," she said.

Paul nodded and leaned forward in front of the stranger, placing an arm around his waist and letting the man pass his over his shoulders.

"Come on."

The man rose with a deep growl. Tara stood on the other side to give him more support, and the three of them climbed the stairs to the roof of the building. There, a cool breeze that confirmed how vicious the air had been in that damn alley greeted them.

"Wait here, I'm going to take a look," Tara said, separating from them and walking to the small cubicle in the middle of the roof where the access door was located.

Paul watched Tara knock on the door a few times and waited cautiously before opening it and disappearing inside. He felt his breath catching instantly. He knew that Tara was capable of coping alone, but to stay behind, without knowing what would be in there, caused a feeling of uncertainty he didn’t like.

He laughed to himself, suddenly remembering Daryl and the number of times that he’d reprimanded him for doing exactly the same thing—getting ahead to do the dirty work, leaving him no other choice than staying behind, grunting, while he waited impatiently for his return.

"I need to sit down."

The man's weary voice rushed into his thoughts. He hadn’t even realized that his body had leaned to one side with the weight of the stranger who seemed to be about to fall exhaustedly to the ground. Paul helped him to move a few steps so he could sit on the floor, leaning his back against the curb of the roof. Then, Paul walked away from him, just enough to watch him now that all the chaos was a few stories below.

He was a man who would probably be in his early forties, just a little taller than him with broad and strong shoulders. He had a dark blond, thick beard that contrasted with his shaven head. There, he had a really big scar that ran over most of his skull. Despite his scruffy appearance, Paul could see that beneath that stout and careless facade he must have been a handsome man sometime in his life.

Paul blinked, realizing that he had been staring at him and met the stranger’s blue eyes, who also seemed to be scrutinizing him with great attention. Paul shifted, uncomfortable, and cleared his throat. "What happened?" he asked, nodding toward the wound on his leg.

"Trying to escape from the dead."

"How many are you?"

"We were eight," he replied, lowering his voice regretfully.

"Eight? I only counted seven, three women and four men."

"There were eight of us," he insisted. "Bob got us into this mess and was the first to die."

Paul took a deep breath and came up to crouch in front of him. "You live here?"

The man squirmed with a wince, clutching his leg with both hands. Then he lifted his head and looked at him. Paul felt his heart speed up in the same way as it usually did when he was ahead of some sort of danger that he was not yet fully aware of. The man wrinkled his brow, also watching him with some strangeness.

"No…"

"Where did you come from and what were you doing here?"

"What we were doing? The same thing as you, I guess—looking for food, provisions, whatever."

"Where did you come from?" Paul asked again, dissatisfied with his answer.

The man sighed tiredly. "Dude… I'm hurt and just lost my people, I don’t… I can’t think right now… but I assure you that I'm not a threat if that's what you're afraid of."

"If there’s something I have learned in this life, is that when someone tells you that they are not a threat, they most probably _are_."

Paul bent over and began to touch him, looking for some kind of weapon between his clothes. The man protested, but didn’t resist. Paul found a small knife he kept in a holster on the back of his belt and a gun that was not loaded. Paul raised an eyebrow.

"It helps to intimidate if the other person is even less armed than you," the man said, shifting his position again with a gasp.

"Let me see," Paul said, kneeling beside his injured leg. The iron had gone through the outside of his right thigh; he was bleeding slightly. It didn’t seem like a serious injury, but enough to cause an infection, and here they had neither the knowledge nor the help to deal with something like this.

"Where did you come from?" Paul insisted.

The man grunted under his breath.

"Listen, I know you're trying to be cautious, man, but you need someone to see this wound as soon as possible—we can take you to your camp."

"There's nowhere to take me where they can help me."

Paul got up with a loud sigh and looked at the door where Tara had disappeared. Then he put the man's weapons on his own belt.

"Where are you from?" the stranger asked.

Paul turned around, ignoring him; his hands shaking strangely. He walked to the other side of the roof, cursing because of the way his body reacted to the man's presence. He rubbed the bridge of his nose telling himself that they had been away for two weeks and that he was probably just tired and perhaps overwhelmed by this unexpected incident. It had been too long since they had seen new people.

"You are not from around here, are you? You don’t have a local accent," the man continued, probably realizing that Paul was not going to give him an answer.

"Neither do you," Paul replied with exhaustion in his voice.

The man murmured something behind him. "Yes, I’m not from around here, but you see… life and death have brought me here. Isn’t your friend taking a bit too long?"

"She’ll be alright."

For a few minutes—aside from the walkers—only the man's stifled cries were audible. Paul breathed calmly, trying to keep his pounding pulse under control, but there was something about the stranger that had managed to put all his senses on alert and it frustrated him not being able to understand why. He was just a man, disarmed and wounded. He knew neither Tara nor he would have trouble taking him down, in case he decided to attack them, but even that seemed a remote possibility. So Paul couldn’t help wondering why his presence was making him react this way. It was as if his body knew something that his mind was not yet able to understand.

"Are you going to abandon me?" the stranger asked with concern after a while, breaking the silence that, far from reassuring him, was only making Paul even more nervous.

Paul turned to look at him. "Do we have reason to do so?"

"I have told you that I’m not a threat, you are two and I’m not even armed anymore."

"That's right, but there could be more people, those that you obviously refuse to talk about. People who can come for you and follow us."

The man shook his head. "There’s no one else."

"I'm afraid, I don’t believe you."

The man moved again, holding his leg and letting out a loud sigh. "Jesus, right? That's what she called you, am I wrong?"

Paul didn’t answer, but that didn’t seem to stop the other man. "All right, Jesus, I'm going to be honest with you, okay? We saw you before you got into town. We saw the truck, and you know that when someone’s driving a truck in this shit world means they are carrying something important. So we followed you. That’s all."

"You were going to steal from us," Paul added, his jaw tightening.

"Yes… you wanted the truth, that’s the truth."

"And I guess what you were doing down there was to prepare some kind of trap, right?"

The man bowed his head. "We didn’t want to harm you… we just wanted what was in the truck. Everything went wrong, and now I've lost my people."

A sound from inside the building diverted the attention of the two. Paul went to the door and opened it. Bouncing over the stairwell, he heard quick, distant footsteps and he imagined that Tara was headed back to the roof.

When he turned to look at the man again, his eyes were closed as he gripped his leg tightly. Paul shook his head and walked a few steps toward him before stopping again. He knew what he was trying to do, he wanted to gain his trust to be taken with them; it was obvious. He had seen that kind of behavior in his past too many times. Suspects who were exceptionally docile during the interrogations, manifesting a fake vulnerability that had nothing to do with the acts they were accused of. However, they tried to seek some clemency with that attitude—unfortunately for them, they never reached it.

The world had changed, that was true, and he too had done questionable things for his own survival and that of his people, and although he could understand the stranger's motives, it didn’t mean that he had to trust him.

" _Jesus_ …" the man interrupted, speaking slowly, as if he were just formulating a thought out loud. "Is that your real name?"

"People have gotten used to call me that."

"I can see why. For some time people called me Helmet," he said, pointing to the scar on his head. "I had an accident a few years ago, nobody thought I would make it, but it looks like I’m pigheaded." He tried to draw a smile to iron out the comment and the memory, but it faded as quickly as it had appeared. "Anyway, you can call me Peter."

Paul watched him closely for a few seconds, and then turned his gaze back to the door, waiting for Tara to appear there at any moment.

"You can call me Jesus, like everybody else does," he said flatly.

The man exhaled in frustration. "You know what? You remind me of someone, someone from the past." Paul overlooked his comment and walked to the door. "I suppose it would be too much of a coincidence, right? But there's something… I don’t know."

Paul wondered why Tara was taking so long, and he felt his impatience grow with the passing seconds.

"His name was Paul…"

Paul stopped short when he was only a few feet away from the access door.

"Paul Monroe."

Paul turned, his breath stuck in his throat as he looked at the man. _Peter_.

"Oh my God!" the man exclaimed, raising his eyebrows in a mixture of astonishment and amazement. "It’s really you—holy shit… you've changed so much, but fucking hell, I could be able to recognize those eyes miles away." The man watched him in disbelief, as if he was surprised by his own discovery, and as if he waited for some kind of reaction from Paul, but he seemed to be too stunned to speak. "Paul, man, don’t you recognize me? I'm—"

"Peter Bennett," Paul cut him off, letting out the air he had trapped in his lungs.

Just as the name slipped from his lips and his heart shrank painfully in his chest, the access door swung open behind him.

"I'm back—everything’s clear in there."


	4. 02

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Trigger warning in end note. Please check to be safe.)

3 MONTHS AGO.

 

The sound of the hand-brush scrubbing the leather and the rubber of his boot seemed to have distracted him so much that he hadn’t heard Daryl approaching until he dropped his bag grouchily beside him. Paul jumped slightly and watched Daryl as he moved around, gesturing and murmuring to himself.

Paul was sitting on the stairs to the trailer’s entrance; he dipped the brush into a bucket of water he’d placed beside him and continued to wipe the mud from his boots without taking his eyes from Daryl.

"Is something wrong?" he asked after a moment.

Daryl came into a dead stop and turned abruptly to look at him, as if he hadn’t been aware of Paul’s existence. He watched him for a long second, obviously pondering if he needed to give him an honest answer or not—or give an answer at all.

"Nah," he finally said and started to pace up and down again.

Paul breathed the warm air of the summer dusk in and continued with what he was doing, not intending to insist. He knew Daryl well; if anything bothered him, and he really wanted to talk about it, he would eventually, without the need to press him further.

"That Tyler fucker!" he snapped just seconds later. The corner of Paul‘s lips curved up a little. "Who the fuck does he think he is?"

"What’s the problem?" he asked, wetting the brush again.

"He's a fuckin’ jerk."

Daryl's voice reflected an exasperation that was unusual for him. Paul dropped the brush into the bucket and put his boot down. "Why do you say that? I heard Tyler was one of the best in the group."

"He is, and the asshole thinks that's enough to treat others like shit. Today I had to confront him about that, but the motherfucker wouldn’t listen, he acts like he’s doing us all a favor or somethin’, and I'm fuckin’ sick of it!"

The level of disgust in Daryl’s tone made Paul throw his head back in surprise.

"Daryl—"

"D’ya know what that piece of shit said when he turned around, thinkin’ I wasn’t listenin’?" Daryl interrupted. "He said ‘go fuck someone else’s ass, _faggot_.’"

Paul exhaled loudly and shook his head. "Daryl, calm down."

"Calm down? You want me to calm down? I was _this_ close to break his face right there, in front of everyone."

"Well, you should control that temper of yours."

"Control my temper?" he asked incredulously, sharpening his tone and babbling unintelligibly. "Didja even hear anythin’ I’ve said?"

"Yes, I've heard it, Daryl, and frankly, I'm not even surprised about this coming from Tyler. I know he's been saying things about me and Alex, too," Paul replied calmly, shrugging.

Daryl stared at him, his face darkening furiously. "What did he say?" he asked in a low voice.

"Anything that can come out of the mouth of a backward homophobe and ultimately—like you just said—an asshole. Who cares, Daryl? I don’t pay attention to those things, and you shouldn’t either."

An intense growl escaped from Daryl’s lips. Paul knew that asking Daryl to ignore that kind of comments was not only complicated but also genuinely impossible. Being the target of a society that not even the apocalypse had managed to change completely was still too new for him, so Paul couldn’t help but feel some fear at the possible prospect of such a direct and unwarranted rejection frightening Daryl away from him and what they had.

"Come here," Paul said, moving aside on the step, leaving room for Daryl to sit down.

Muttering, Daryl came over and sat down beside him, letting out an audible sigh of discomfort. Paul turned, their knees brushing with the movement. Then he placed a hand on the back of Daryl's neck, ignoring the dampness of the sweat from a long day's work and burying his fingers in his hair, stroking it as he spoke softly, "You have every right to be annoyed, Daryl, but there are things you can’t control or change. You can hit him as hard as you want, but you're not going to make him think differently. So, do you think it's worth wasting your time with what ignorant people like Tyler say?"

Daryl hung his head.

"Does it really bother you?"

"It pisses me off," Daryl said hoarsely.

"I'd be surprised if it didn’t, but don’t let it affect you, okay?"

Paul pushed some strands away from Daryl's face; he tilted his head to the side, letting Paul’s fingers brush his skin.

"Are you happy?" Paul asked in a whisper.

Daryl looked up quickly, his brow wrinkled with confusion, as if that question made no sense to him at all.

"Yes," he replied honestly.

Paul smiled. He knew Daryl was happy without the need of him saying it out loud, but hearing it with his own ears made his chest grow warm.

He leaned forward until his nose brushed against Daryl’s. "So who cares what that Tyler Nobody thinks?" he added, then planted a quick kiss on Daryl’s lips, grabbed his boots and stood up. "Do you feel better?"

"Yeah," Daryl said, smiling.

"Great. Don’t forget to clean your boots before you come in." Paul patted his shoulder and entered the trailer. Behind him, he heard Daryl chuckling.

 

 

* * *

 

 

TODAY.

 

There was only darkness on the other side of the window, not even the timid silver tones offered by the bright full moon were able to illuminate the outline of the adjoining buildings.

They had slipped into the first apartment that they had found empty after Tara had checked the building. Paul was in one of the bedrooms, looking at the street as he tried not to think too much about the two little beds behind him.

In the next room, Tara was examining Peter’s wound. Their voices were muffled through the wall that separated the two spaces, but he couldn’t distinguish anything of what they were talking about.

Paul sighed and closed his eyes. _Peter Bennett_. Of all the people he could have imagined meeting again, Bennett would probably have been in the deepest abysses of his list. He had to think hard to try to remember the last time he’d heard from him, but his mind insisted on going further back, traveling to a past he had been trying to erase completely from his memory for many years.

 

_The soda spilled over the edge of the paper cup, soaking his clothes and hands._

_"Watch where you're going, princess!"_

_Paul turned in the middle of the high school hallway to meet Sam Carter and his gang of cavemen. Ethan Miller, Matthew Davis, Logan Foster, and, a few steps behind, Peter Bennett._

_"It’s you who should watch where you're going, idiot!" Martha exclaimed beside him._

_Paul grabbed her arm. "Martha, don’t bother."_

_"Yeah,_ Martha _, don’t bother and fucking move out of the way," Sam teased, pushing Martha aside, who bumped into Paul, causing them both to stumble._

_The Cavemen Gang passed by with the attitude of those who think they are above all of those around them. In fact, the five were about to graduate to go to college and they were the fucking bosses of the High School. They acted as if those walls belonged to them, and nobody seemed to have the courage or the desire to tell them otherwise._

_Peter Bennett and his friends always had taken first place in the illusory game that was called High School Popularity. They came from good families, believed that money could buy everything, and their maximum aspiration was to be stars in the football team. Those who didn’t avoid them for fear of harassment were eager to kiss up to them or get inside their pants. Paul was among the latter. That Peter Bennett bastard brought out the worst in him, shaking up his most primal instincts, and even now, covered in Coca-Cola, he couldn’t take his eyes off him, of his athletic body, his dark blond hair, his blue eyes and those damn full lips that just begged to be tasted._

Paul sat on the windowsill, rubbing his forehead energetically; trying to get rid of the memories. His brain, however, seemed to be working on its own.

 

_"Paul, stop it!" Martha snapped, grabbing his arm and pulling him in the opposite direction._

_But Paul couldn’t take his eyes off Peter, who turned around to wink at him when no one else was watching._

_Martha pushed him until they entered the toilets and started to pick up paper towels as she spat out words that made no sense to him._

_"Martha, relax."_

_"Fuck you, Paul. Those assholes would ignore us if you didn’t go around flirting with Bennett in such a blatant way."_

_"Come on, Peter enjoys the attention much more than I do."_

_"He's three years older than you."_

_"So? It’s just words; we’re not hurting anyone."_

_"Yeah, right, until the day you overstep your boundaries, he gets tired of you being his pet, and beats you up to get rid of you."_

_The concern in Martha's voice was so obvious that Paul paused to think about her words for a second. He’d never really noticed Peter Bennett until a few months ago, but since then, it seemed as if he were everywhere he looked—always standing out. Peter had only needed to wink at him once, just as he had done a moment before, for all of Paul's instincts to go completely insane._

_Paul didn’t deny that he’d been thinking about the consequences when he had begun to flirt with him without a hint of modesty. However, these exchanges had heated up when, far from rejecting him, Peter had gone along with the game. And it was just that, a_ game _. He understood what Martha meant, though, the problem was not two teenagers flirting, the problem was that both of them were male, and it was more than obvious that Peter could hide his interest much better than he did._

_"Paul, you know they're fucking animals." Martha took his face into her hands, claiming his attention. "Remember what they did to Fat Marcus—"_

_"Oh, c’mon, don’t call him that."_

_"Remember it, Paul! Aren’t you afraid?"_

Paul closed his eyes, thinking of Martha—his best friend. She had always been by his side, despite knowing what it meant to share personal space with someone like him, who wasn’t afraid to show himself just how he was at a very difficult time. Back then, Martha had become the sane part of his own conscience, even though she had also won the rejection of the majority on her own after having threatened to put a curse on one of her class enemies. No one had dared to get near her after that; they firmly had believed that she was a witch, and her gothic looks hadn’t helped with that situation either. Paul knew that he too would have believed it if he hadn’t known her as much as he did—sometimes Martha had been able to read his mind a lot better than he himself.

Now he remembered her nervous words and how he had understood them, but also the way he had tossed them aside while nodding at her, so she wouldn’t have to worry about him.

The last thing he remembered about Martha was what Ben had told him over the phone while he’d been in Morocco—just before all the chaos had broken out. She’d been pregnant; she and Elliot had been expecting a baby.

 

_The toilet door burst open before they could dry out all the soda._

_"What I feared," Sam said, coming in like a whirlwind. "Don’t you think you've got the wrong toilet, you faggot?"_

_Sam grabbed Paul by his sweater and dragged him toward the door, but instead of taking him out to the hallway, he slammed him against the tiled wall. Paul clenched his teeth, trying to hold the moan of pain back that struggled to spring from his lips._

_"Get away from him!" Martha screamed._

_"Do you have to bring your bulldog with you all the time? Don’t you know how to defend yourself?" Sam said._

_"Sam, stop!"_

_Paul couldn’t see him, but he knew it was Peter’s voice. In a matter of seconds, the bathroom was filled with students attracted by the commotion._

_"Tell me Monroe, how many cocks did you suck this week?" Sam asked in a low voice._

_"Why? Are you pissed off because you weren’t on the list?"_

_Sam raised his fist in the air and Paul closed his eyes, waiting for the blow, but a new voice rose above the others and everyone began to leave the bathroom immediately—including Martha who didn’t take her concerned eyes off him._

_Sam released him and Paul fell to the floor. All of a sudden, there was only him and one of the teachers from 12th grade._

_"What happened?" he asked, crouching in front of him._

_Paul shrugged. "I was just trying to clean myself up," he said, showing him his dirty clothes._

_  
_

A sound on the other side of the wall forced Paul back into the present. He had been so absorbed that he had to wonder how much time had passed since they’d gotten inside of the apartment. Everything seemed to remain in place, though, the moon shone above their heads practically at the same point where he had last observed it. It couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes since he had left Tara checking on Peter, and yet time seemed to have stopped around him.

He knew he had to forget the past. It had been twenty years and that was a lot of time—people changed. He had changed, Martha had changed, and there was no reason for Peter Bennett to have stayed the same. This new world was their present now and Peter needed help, as many others who had crossed his path had and whom he had not hesitated to lend a hand to.

 

_Paul carefully rubbed a dampened paper towel against his clothes. He knew that those stains wouldn’t come out so easily, but he still didn’t stop because he also knew that, deep down, this was just an excuse to be able to spend some time alone, while all the others were already in the classrooms._

_He murmured unwillingly when he heard the soft squeaking of the door; yet his whole body froze and tensed when he saw Peter Bennett in the doorway._

_"Shouldn’t you be in class?" Paul asked._

_"And you?"_

_"I think they won't care if I miss this hour," he said as he continued with that useless task._

_"Why do you keep doing it?"_

_Paul stopped and looked up. "Do what?"_

_"Act the way you do, and then let them insult you. You don’t face them—"_

_"I do it every single day when I leave my house without giving two shits about what fuckers like Sam Carter think of me."_

_"Don’t be naive Monroe, one day they’ll get tired and there will be consequences."_

_"Will you let them do it?"_

_Peter snorted. "Monroe, this game has to end."_

_"And yet you play along."_

_"I have a girlfriend."_

_"Yeah, well, and I'd dare to say that you look pretty bored."_

_"Paul!" Peter suddenly snapped, taking a few steps forward and pointing a finger at him, "Enough, I mean it—this game is over."_

_Paul stepped back and placed a hand on the sink, trying to keep his balance when Peter, with his bear-like body, stopped only a few inches from him._

_"The game has to stop," Peter repeated again, his voice hoarse._

_"Now you're going to tell me that you're not enjoying it," he replied, emboldening himself, as he narrowed the space between them._

_Peter took a deep breath; even Paul could hear him swallowing. "You're playing with fire, Monroe."_

Paul blinked several times, then looked around the room and picked up one of the chairs on the study table. He placed it next to the window and sat down, leaning back against it as he placed his feet on the windowsill.

 

_"What are you up to?" Martha asked, sitting in front of him in the dining room._

_"What do you mean?"_

_"The Cavemen Gang hasn’t approached us for almost two weeks. Are you playing hard to get now?"_

_"Why do you think it's that and not that I just threw in the towel?"_

_"Because I know you too well, Paul."_

_"Well… is it working?"_

_"He doesn’t stop looking over here," Martha replied, looking at Peter over Paul's shoulder._

_Paul smiled, pleased, and took a sip of his water bottle. Martha shook her head in resignation._

_  
_

"Are you sleeping?"

Paul jerked in his seat and saw Tara standing right behind him.

"Fucking hell, Tara, do you want me to have a heart attack?"

"Coming from the expert ninja, I’ll take that as a compliment," she said, pushing away Paul's feet from the windowsill, so she could sit there.

"How is he?"

"I think he's starting to have a fever and the wound…" Tara shook her head. "The bar is all rusty and dirty—that's not good. I've been trying to get some information out of him, but it’s been useless. I’ve assured him that he needs help urgently, but he keeps saying that he has nowhere to go where he can be helped. Then he began to babble things that didn’t make much sense." Tara sighed. "Do you think he's telling the truth?"

Paul thought about the answer for a few seconds. Peter had said the same thing when he’d asked him back on the roof.

"I think he doesn’t lie when he says he doesn’t have anyone to help him, but I suspect he _does_ have a place to go."

Tara drew a strange grimace on her face. "I can go back, wake him up, and force him to tell us the truth," she said, pulling her sleeves up teasingly.

 

_Paul turned as soon as he heard a car stop at the sidewalk right beside him. The book he just had borrowed from the library nearly slipped from his hands when he realized that it was Peter Bennett's black Ford Taurus._

_Peter bent over the passenger seat and opened the door. "Do you need a ride?"_

_Only that question was enough for Paul's heart to start a frenzied dance against his chest. Peter knew perfectly well that he was only a few yards from his house. Paul’s throat went dry, but he didn’t think twice and got into the car._

_They looked at each other for a moment, but neither of them said anything. Paul was not sure where the hell he’d gotten the guts, but he only realized that his hand had landed on Peter's thigh when he finally managed to take his eyes away from him. He could feel Peter's_ _muscles twitching under the palm of his hand, but he didn’t say anything. Peter settled his back in the seat and started the car._

"Why do you know him, exactly?" Tara asked after a few minutes without Paul adding anything else to their conversation.

Paul didn’t look away from the window when he answered, "We went to the same high school."

"Were you friends or something? He looks older than you."

"He's three years older than me."

"So, were you friends?" Tara insisted in a singularly grave tone.

 

_The kisses had become fiery and messy. Paul's back ached in a bad posture against the back seat of the car. His jacket and T-shirt had ended on the rug next to Peter's clothing, sometime after they had moved from the front seats._

_They were in the outskirts, Peter had hidden the car behind an abandoned building, but the Anacostia River could be seen even from there. However, neither the humidity nor the cold of October were able to quell the suffocating heat that had managed to mist up the windows of the vehicle. Their hands touched and brushed uncontrollably and Paul was sure that they would exhaust all their air reserves at any moment._

_He couldn’t believe this was really happening. He was making out with Peter Bennett in the backseat of his car, and his mind was unable to focus as it worked at such frantic speed that he even felt dizzy._

_His breath caught in his throat when he noticed Peter's hands moving over the buckle of his belt, working until he finally managed to slide his jeans and underwear down to his knees. Paul sat up slightly, feeling his heart pounding._

_"Peter…" he said, as he struggled to catch some of the lost air, and watched Peter unbutton his own pants, at the same time he rummaged in his wallet._

_Paul swallowed, his pulse racing so fast he could feel his hands and body shaking under the scratch of an icy chill. Peter slid down his pants, ignoring Paul's questioning look that didn’t leave Peter's eyes as he pulled out a condom and opened it._

_Paul sat up quickly. "Peter—hey, wait a second… slow down, man—this—this is getting out of hand," he said, but Peter didn’t look up at him. "Okay, listen, I don’t mind playing around a bit, okay? I wouldn’t even mind giving you a blowjob, but you're going too fast, and I've never—"_

_"Everything will be fine," Peter replied roughly and as if he wasn’t even listening to him._

_"Peter, listen to me, for fuck’s sake—you are going too fast, I've never done this before, and you’re scaring me," he said, trying to draw a smile as he placed both hands on Peter's arms, but the corner of his lips trembled as Peter finished putting on the condom. "Okay, Peter, stop. I don’t want to do this."_

_Peter not only ignored Paul's demands but grabbed his hands and forced him to turn around. Then he pushed him face down into the seat, placing his arms behind his back and holding his wrists firmly with one hand. Paul tried to fight him, but Peter was bigger and stronger._

_"Peter, fuck! Stop!"_

_Paul could feel Peter’s whole body over him, trapping him against the seat—he could barely breathe. Peter placed his free hand on his head, holding him more firmly and drowning Paul's pleas against the upholstery._

"No, we weren’t friends."

"So you had no relationship with him?" Tara asked.

Paul turned to look at her with a frown. "What do you mean?"

"I don’t know, if you two frequented the same places, the same people…"

"Peter was eighteen, I was fifteen. We knew each other, because we went to the same High School. We talked sometimes. That's all."

Tara raised her hands in the air, clearly surprised by the resounding response. "Hey, calm down, man… I just want to make sure, okay? Because I was just wondering if, for whatever reason, we had to leave him behind, if that would weigh on your conscience…"

Paul straightened his back sharply and turned to stare at Tara. "Are you suggesting we leave him behind?"

 

_"Get out of the car."_

_Paul struggled to catch his breath, his chest jerking with a shuddering breath as he sat in the car seat. His body hurt, his head ached, but what hurt him most was his own pride, and the feeling that he hadn’t done enough to prevent it from happening._

_He trembled, clinging to his shirt and jacket that he held against his bare chest—he'd only been able to put his pants back on. His limbs seemed unable to respond. Nothing in his body seemed to work suddenly. Even Peter's voice had sounded so far away that, for a second, he thought it had only been a nightmare from which he hoped he could wake up._

_"Get out of the car."_

_Peter's voice bounced like a hammer against his eardrums. Paul turned to look at him, still unable to speak; he didn’t even think he could move. Peter finished buttoning his shirt and laid his ice-blue eyes on him. Paul felt goose bumps creep up his skin, feeling like a helpless lamb locked in a lion's cage._

_He looked at Peter carefully, but all he could see now was a stranger._

_He wanted to cry for his own stupidity, for letting that whole situation go that far—for not listening to Martha's warnings._

_Peter shifted abruptly to his side, opening the door and getting out of the car. Then he went around and furiously headed toward the other side. Paul swallowed and clung even tighter to the clothes he hadn’t yet been able to put on. Peter opened the door violently and Paul backed away instinctively._

_"Get out of the fucking car!" Peter snapped, grabbing him hard and dragging him out._

_"No! Peter!"_

_Paul tried to fight, although he was not even sure why he was doing it. He didn’t want to spend another second with Peter Bennett. But he was also aware that they were far away from his house, and the sky had turned a dark gray color._

_A groan of pain escaped his lips as his body finally hit the damp ground. The breeze brushed his naked torso as if hundreds of pins fell on him. He heard Peter slam the door shut and then saw him sit in the driver's seat, starting the engine immediately._

_"Peter, you fucking bastard! You’re not going to leave me here!"_

_The car moved only a few yards backwards until it stopped again. Peter lowered his window and threw the book from the library out, then hurried to turn around._

_Paul dragged himself to take the copy of Fyodor Dostoevsky’s_ Crime and Punishment _. He looked at the book, covered in mud now, and then he looked up to see the Ford Taurus drift away._

 

__

"We are not going to abandon him," Paul said before Tara could answer.

"It's not that I want to do it, man, but I'm not blind, Jesus, you're acting very weird and you're the one who knows him—I know shit about this guy, so I just want to make sure we're doing the right thing."

Paul sighed heavily, very aware of his behavior. "I'm just surprised, okay? Of all the people I could have met in this new world, I never imagined he could be one of them," he said, trying to sound calm. Then he got up. "Listen, sleep. I'll keep watch and as soon as the sun rises, we'll head to Hilltop."

He could see all the questions that ran through Tara’s head reflected in her eyes, things she probably was dying to ask. It was obvious that Tara was aware there was much more to the subject than what Paul was telling, but she still nodded. Paul squeezed her shoulder affectionately and walked into the adjoining room. Peter was curled up on his left side in the king-sized bed. His eyes tightened and his face contorted in a clear grimace of pain. Paul was not sure if he was asleep or not, but he was not going to get any closer to find out. He picked up an armchair, moved it to the window and sat down to wait.

 

_Paul tightened his scarf around his neck and folded his arms across his chest, even though he was grateful for the icy breeze blowing and burning the smooth skin of his cheeks. He needed some fresh air, he needed some space to think, and he couldn’t do it with Martha's sharp voice asking him every two seconds what the hell was going on with him. It had been four days since his encounter with Peter, and though he tried hard, he was barely able to hide the uneasiness that had settled on his shoulders like a heavy concrete block._

_He had met Martha at her place to work on a project together, but his inability to concentrate, and the obvious concern and impatience of his friend, had forced him to excuse himself and leave._

_He fought the need to tell Martha; he thought that perhaps if he spoke to someone, he would find some relief. But the embarrassment that was overwhelming him was so strong that he couldn’t see how._

_He was only a couple of houses away from his own when his whole body froze in the middle of the sidewalk. A few yards from where he was, he saw Peter's black Ford Taurus parked. His breathing quickened and he stepped back as soon as the door opened and Peter got out of the car. He didn’t close the door; he just turned to look at him, resting his arm on it._

_"Get in the car, Paul."_

_"No," he answered quickly, though less firm than he would have liked._

_"We need to talk, Monroe, get in the car."_

_"You can go to hell, Bennett. I'm not getting in that car with you."_

_Peter muttered something and closed the door, walking toward him. Paul took another step back and instinctively looked around to see if anyone was close—unfortunately, this was a quiet, residential neighborhood, and the unpleasant day didn’t seem to have invited anyone out._

_Before he could react, Peter appeared in front of his face, grabbed him by the arm, and pulled him into a nearby alley, away from any possible curious eyes. Paul struggled until he got free, but Peter grabbed him again and pushed him against the wall of one of the houses._

_"The hell do you want?" Paul snapped._

_"Did you tell anyone?"_

_"Tell what?"_

_"Don’t mess with me, Monroe, did you tell anyone?"_

_Paul looked at him, realizing that it was much more than anger what he saw in Peter's eyes. It was pure fear._

_"What are you afraid of me telling, Peter? That you like dicks or—"_

_Peter grabbed Paul's neck, pushing him hard against the wall. "I swear to god, if you tell anyone, I'll set your house on fire while your whole family sleeps inside. Did you hear me?"_

_That threat not only failed to scare Paul, it made his blood boil in his veins with a fury he didn’t think he’d ever felt in his life before._

_Paul struck Peter hard in the chest, pushing him away from him. "Fuck you, Peter Bennett," he said and walked away._

_  
_

Peter's plaintive moans forced Paul to open his eyes. It would have been two or three hours since he’d been sitting there. He hadn’t slept, but for a long moment, he had managed to cling to the pleasant silence around him. The memories had become more vivid than ever, and the only thing Paul wanted in that instant was to find a way to calm his own mind.

He had to remind himself again that many years had passed, but the guilt struck him painfully, almost as it had done back then. He had known that he'd been feeding a bratty fighting dog, but he would never have imagined Peter being able to do anything like that.

He unconsciously raised a hand to his upper lip, to the place where the scar was hidden under his beard, a memory of the beating he’d received days later. He imagined what it would be like to confront Sam Carter and his bunch of asshole friends now, in _this_ present. Paul laughed at the image forming in his head and shook off the idea, because, in the end, he knew he wouldn’t do anything to them even if he could, just as they weren’t going to abandon Peter to a certain death. After all, he knew that all he really wanted, far from any longing for vengeance, was to be able to go back to Hilltop and see Daryl again, to feel him close, to hug him and fall asleep next to him, to forget about his past life, and focus on what he had now.

Paul looked at the bed; Peter was flinching, moaning, and trembling slightly. Paul rose and approached him. The little light that entered the window made the sweat on his brow shine. The fever seemed to be getting worse.

With a loud sigh, Paul left the room and walked down the hallway, opening doors until he found the bathroom. He took out the small flashlight he always carried with him and rummaged in drawers and cabinets for medication. The only thing he found were a couple of aspirin bottles and an empty pack of tampons. He cursed, but kept searching the rest of the house.

Twenty minutes later, he’d only found a bottle of cholesterol pills in one of the drawers in the kitchen. He placed the bottles over a table and leaned into the room where he’d left Tara—she was sleeping soundly. Paul walked to the entrance and went out to the hallway of the fifth floor where they were staying. He knocked on the door of the apartment right in front him and waited. When he heard nothing, he pulled his picklock from one of his pockets and forced the door open with ease. He did the same thing in almost all the apartments of the building, storing the medical supplies that he was able to find.

At least three hours must have passed when he returned to the apartment. As he entered, Tara immediately went out into the hall.

"Where the fuck have you been?"

Paul showed her the plastic bag he was carrying. "Do you think this will help?"

"You went looking for meds?" she asked, picking up the bag and looking inside.

"He doesn’t look well," he said, pointing at Peter.

"No, he doesn’t. We can give him something for the pain, but he needs to see a doctor. There’s not much time left until sunrise, I can go get the truck. The sooner we get out of here, the better."

"Okay, I'll help him get out."

Tara ran out of the apartment with the meds and Paul walked up to the bed. It took him a few minutes to get Peter to react, and they had only gone down two floors when the man collapsed on the steps, taking Paul down with him.

"Damn it, Peter."

"It hurts a lot."

"I know, man, but we still have three floors left."

Peter laughed to himself between hard breaths. "I was about to tell you… that you should forget about me, that you should leave me here, but… I suspect you would take that opportunity to turn around without even looking back, right?"

Paul didn’t answer and merely helped him get up again.

"I see… I see the resentment in your eyes, Paul."

"Stop talking and focus on the steps."

"Damn… you've changed so much… there's nothing left of that vulnerable kid in you, huh?"

"Peter…"

"I know what I did, Paul—"

"Peter, I swear, if you don’t shut up, I'll leave you right here."

Peter shook his head and growled in pain after he was about to lose his balance again. They didn’t speak more until they reached the street, which took them longer than Paul had expected. The sky had already turned into an intense violet color and although the sun hadn’t come out yet, there was enough light. Tara hadn’t arrived, but soon they heard the roar of the semi truck's engine that turned around the corner of the building only minutes later. Paul pulled Peter toward the trailer and Tara joined them.

"Can you get him inside? I'm going to get something so he can sit down," she said.

As Tara entered the building again, Paul opened the roll-up door of the vehicle. Peter tensed up instantly when he saw what was inside.

"What is this?" he asked, almost breathless.

"The reason you're injured."

Paul climbed into the trailer and put some things aside to make room for Peter. Then he walked back to him again and held out his hand. Peter took it and struggled into the truck.

"Books, desks…" he said, as if he couldn’t believe his people would have died because of this.

"Life sucks sometimes, man," Paul replied indifferently as he moved around the trailer.

Peter groaned and clutched to one of the piles of stacked tables to keep his balance. Paul almost felt sorry for him, but Tara appeared just in time to distract the most benevolent part of his consciousness. She was carrying a blanket and a pair of cushions that she’d taken from a sofa.

"Here," she said, placing one of the cushions against the trailer wall and another on the floor, "sit down."

Once Peter was comfortable, Tara got out of the truck and returned a few seconds later with the meds. "We'll give him something for the pain, and water. He needs to stay hydrated. We should also clean the wound."

"I’ll do that," Paul replied. "You drive."

"Okay. Let's get out of here, then."

The truck was soon on its way and Paul knelt beside Peter, drawing one of his knives.

"What are you going to do?" Peter asked, alarmed.

"I'm going to cut your pants, I need to see the wound."

Paul didn’t wait for Peter’s answer and began tearing at the cloth carefully.

"Shit," Peter snapped when he had a clear view of the bar across his thigh.

"Don’t move," Paul ordered. Then he took a bottle of alcohol from the bag and sprinkled it on the bar and the wound relentlessly.

Peter screamed, groaned, and spat out a series of expletives, as he tried to clutch at everything he had on hand to try not to move too much while Paul cleaned the wound stoically.

"I'm sorry," Paul said, his tone as cold as impassive.

"What did you do in your other life?" Peter asked, breathing and speaking with difficulty. "Were you a doctor or something?"

"You don’t need a medical degree to pour alcohol into a wound."

"Yeah… of course—I was a security guard." Peter spoke probably in an attempt to distract himself and laughed as if this were something stupid. "Did you know that I ran into Martha some years later?" he asked, but Paul remained silent as Peter bit his lips to suppress another growl of pain. "I was surprised to see her… although she didn’t seem very happy to see me—I never heard from you again."

Paul continued to wipe the wound without a word, though he could feel Peter's eyes on him.

"I don’t blame you for being angry," he continued. "I was a stupid, arrogant kid… and I know this comes twenty years too late, but I’m sorry about what happened, Paul." Peter waited for Paul to say something, but he remained silent. "Okay… don’t say anything… I understand. I just wanted you to know that I regretted it for many years and I really thought about calling you, but… I didn’t have the guts." Peter chuckled nervously. "Look at us now, reunited again, in the midst of the apocalypse."

"Yeah, what a coincidence."

"You know, Sam Carter was killed in a car accident. Ethan got into a state football team, but an injury withdrew him ahead of time. Matthew Davis was ruined after divorcing from his wife, and Logan… I heard that he became a crack addict, but then he just disappeared."

"Karma can be a bitch."

"Yes… I suppose—I got married," he continued. "I had a wife and children—twins. My wife was with me when I had the bike accident," he said, pointing at his head. "She was better off than I was, fortunately." Peter paused. "I lost them all only a few months after the turn."

Paul paused to look Peter in the eye. "I'm sorry to hear that," he said truthfully, then continued with what he was doing.

Peter nodded and changed his posture, and then a smile curved his lips. "But, you know what? My brother is still alive. Do you remember him? Josh, he's all I—"

Paul's blood froze in his veins at the same time Peter pursed his lips and closed his eyes. The bastard just had blurted out, without even realizing it, that he, in fact, was not alone. There were more people out there, and as they had suspected, he probably also had a camp to retreat to.

Peter stood still as a rock, aware of his slip, and waited hesitantly for Paul's reaction, but after a few seconds, when the silence could nearly be touched with their fingertips, Paul simply stood up and hit the wall behind the truck’s cab. The vehicle stopped almost instantly and Paul got out, closing the door behind him.

"All good?" Tara asked when Paul sat in the passenger seat. Paul nodded and Tara started the vehicle again.

Paul tried to relax as he watched Atlantic City disappear through the rearview mirror, but his heart was pounding so hard he could feel it pumping in his ears. He cursed under his breath, then leaned forward and slammed the glove compartment open, pulling out one of the maps they carried with them.

"Stop the truck."

"What?" Tara asked, looking at him with a frown.

"Stop the truck, Tara," he repeated hoarsely.

Tara stepped on the brakes and Paul got off quickly, even before the semi truck had stopped completely.

"What the—Jesus!"

With steady and determined steps, Paul headed back to the trailer, opened the door, and leapt inside, dropping the map onto Peter's lap. "Tell me where it is," he said gravely.

Peter looked at him in bewilderment and then turned to look at Tara who had just joined them.

"What's wrong?" Tara asked.

"Tell me where your camp is, Peter."

"I—I don’t—"

Paul bent over, grabbing him tightly by his sweater.

"Jesus!"

"Tell me where the fuck it is or I swear I'll throw you out of the truck right now."

"Jesus…"

"Okay, okay… I'll tell you."

Paul pulled away from him and watched Peter take the map with his trembling hands. The tension seemed to grow steadily as they waited, and after a few seconds, Peter pointed at a position on the map; a remote place located between Atlantic City and Philadelphia.

"How many people?" Paul asked.

"We are not many, maybe thirty or forty, and most are elderly people who barely know how to face the dead. We are few that can go out scavenging, and the land is not very good for farming. We don’t have many things, much less meds."

Paul shook his head. "If you're lying to us—"

"It's the truth, I swear!" Peter whined.

Paul took a step forward but stopped when Tara grabbed his arm. "Let's go," she said softly. "He needs help and it's time for us to go home."

In the cab of the truck, the silence grew heavily. Paul could feel Tara's eyes on him as he kept his gaze fixed on the front, waiting for her to put the vehicle back on track. Tara shifted as if she were about to say something, but he spoke first. "Tara, can you do me a favor?" he asked, turning to look at his confused friend.

"What?"

"Don’t tell Daryl that Peter and I know each other, okay?" he said, lowering his voice.

"Do you want me to lie to him?"

"I don’t want you to lie to him, just to _avoid_ that information."

Tara was silent for a few seconds, watching him closely, as if trying to read him, as Martha had done so many times in the past.

"Who is this guy, Jesus?" she asked with concern.

"Please…"

Tara exhaled audibly, then nodded softly and turned on the engine of the car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Skippable non-explicit rape/non-con scene in a flashback paragraph (1), not explicit, fading to black, but could still be upsetting. And the scene that is directly after the incident (2), nothing explicit, but could also be upsetting. So if this bothers you:  
> (1) Skip the flashback paragraph that starts with: _The kisses had become fiery and messy._  
>  (2) Skip the flashback paragraph that starts with: _"Get out of the car."_


	5. 03

4 MONTHS AGO.

 

The night had already fallen when Daryl got into the trailer. The smell of freshly cooked rice flooded the air and made his stomach growl, complaining after so many hours without food. Paul turned to look at him as soon as he appeared in their tiny kitchen. His hair was tied up and he wore a simple white T-shirt along with his gray sweatpants. As he wiped his hands on the dishcloth hanging from his shoulder, his eyes quickly settled on Daryl’s muddy boots.

"C’mon, man… I'm tired!" Daryl protested and looked at Cat, resting on the green couch. "Hey, hair ball, say somethin’, defend me."

Cat stared at him unenthusiastically, as if he didn’t understand why these stupid humans had to disturb him during his well-deserved rest. The animal blinked impassively and Daryl was convinced he would have rolled his eyes if he could.

"He’s obviously on my side," Paul said.

"Traitorous cat," Daryl grumbled, heading back toward the door.

After leaving his boots outside, he returned to the kitchen, wearing some worn-out garneted socks. Paul raised an eyebrow when he saw that the hole that used to be on the left toe was patched.

"Tammy," Daryl replied to the silent question.

"Very nice of her," Paul said, putting two plates full of rice on the table. "You know? I've always felt sorry for her somehow. Since the beginning, she's been, I don’t know, like in her own world—isolated. I think you're the first person she actually connected with."

Daryl sat down at the table with a shrug. "She's good people. Grumpy, but good."

"She reminds me of someone," Paul added, sitting down beside him.

"Fuck off, Monroe," Daryl said, dropping on the table the pin he had worn today on the back pocket of his pants. It had the form of excrement and the legend _‘No Damn Time For Your Bullshit’_ written on it.

Paul let out a laugh. "One of my favorites. You can’t tell me you didn’t laugh when you saw it."

Daryl just snorted and began to eat. "Speakin’ of shit… maybe we should stop eatin’ rice for a few days, I have a huge ball plugging my ass."

"Love, I don’t think this is the right time to talk about your digestive problems."

"Why? Doesn’t the saint poop like everyone else?"

"Like clockwork," Paul replied with a smile and a hand on his stomach.

"Asshole. This ain’t bad though," he remarked after a couple of bites.

"How can you even question my skills?"

"I'm a better cook."

"Really? May I remind the _chef_ that he gave up after the third day after losing a bet?"

"M’sure you cheated."

Paul laughed. "I was very good at playing poker."

"And what does that mean?"

"I'm good at throwing a bluff." Daryl narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "But, I _did_ kill more walkers than you."

Daryl shook his head and ate some more. They could spend the whole damn day like this, just teasing each other. Daryl had to admit that he felt irritated most of the time, even though he was puzzled by the ease with which Paul threw his sarcastic answers back. His brain worked like a machine gun, always loaded and ready. At the end of the day, all he wanted was to kick his annoying ass, and he always thought about it with a wide smile crossing his face. Yes, Daryl Dixon smiled now; he smiled more than he’d ever done in his entire life, and although that damned cat-charming hippie chatterbox knew perfectly well how to drive him up the wall, he also was able to appease him, even on his worst days, with a simple gesture, caress, or look. Watching those blue eyes, and seeing the warmth and affection in them was more than enough for all his problems to fade from his mind.

"It's kind of you to help building Tammy's house," Paul said after a few minutes.

"Was about time she left that shitty trailer."

"The new building looks like a dollhouse."

"Yeah… and still there are idiots complaining about the rule that Maggie has implemented on the size of the houses."

"Yes, I’ve heard."

"We have expanded the walls to have enough space to build houses, and it ain’t enough for them—they want _mansions_. What a bunch of selfish fuckers."

"We always want more, it's part of our nature."

"A week outside the walls, that's what they need; you'd see how they'd change their minds. Ungrateful bastards. They have no idea how fortunate they are."

Paul put his fork on the plate and leaned back in his seat, looking at Daryl with a peculiar expression of guilt.

"What?" Daryl asked.

"I was going to tell you something, but I think I'll wait for a better moment."

"No, what were you gonna say?"

"Nothing, it's not important."

"Bullshit, what is it?"

Paul exhaled and Daryl's heart raced in anticipation. He hated these moments of uncertainty, because he was never sure what could come out of that crazy man’s mouth.

"I asked Norton—of course when he has the time, because I know that everyone is overwhelming him with commissions right now… I, uhm, I asked him to draw some sketches for us."

"Sketches? For us?"

"For a house, a house for both of us."

"Ya want us to move into a house?" Daryl asked with more surprise in his voice than he himself could understand.

Paul gestured at the four walls around them. "You don’t?"

Daryl just looked at him, not knowing what to say.

"Daryl, you’re helping to build Tammy's house, wouldn’t you like to have something like that for yourself?"

"This is already more than I ever had in my entire life," he replied.

"It's a damn box that will soon have the same wear problems as Tammy’s had."

"We'll sort them out."

"Until all of this is no more than a pile of patches, right?"

"If you don’t like it, you could’ve stayed in your _fancy_ room."

A wave of regret struck Daryl the same moment the words echoed in his ears. Daryl closed his eyes and bit his lips, but he knew the harm was already done.

When he opened his eyes again, Paul was looking at his plate—as calm as ever, but the disappointment that had settled in every inch of his face was more than evident.

"Paul…" Daryl wanted to say something, but his brain was a whirlwind of disconnected emotions fighting each other.

"Forget it." Paul waved a hand in the air with a calmness that, far from reassuring Daryl, only intensified the painful pressure that had settled on his chest.

Silence prevailed during the rest of the dinner, and after cleaning up the table, Paul went to Barrington House to see Maggie and little Hershel, who was about to turn four months in a few days. Daryl would have liked to go with him, but finally had decided to go to the watch point where he smoked a much-needed cigarette in Tara’s company.

When he returned to the trailer, Paul was already in bed and reading a book. Only the light of a lamp lit the room dimly. Daryl stayed stuck to the doorframe for a moment while Paul didn’t take his eyes off the book.

Daryl muttered something under his breath and skirted the bed, scratching his head nervously. He sat on the edge of the mattress, turning his back to Paul and undressing slowly, as if he had to think each of his movements through. A few seconds later, he heard Paul close the book and place it on the single, bare nightstand they had. Daryl tossed his clothes aside and got up to put on some black sweatpants and a T-shirt.

As he turned to face him, Paul was watching him with an undeterred expression, yet he moved the bedding so he could get inside. Daryl snuggled under the covers until Paul put an arm around his shoulders and pulled him closer. Daryl exhaled in relief and leaned in, hugging Paul's waist and resting his head on his chest as he listened to the vivacious rhythm of his heart.

"M’sorry for what I said."

"I know you're sorry, Daryl," Paul replied softly, stroking his hair and pressing his lips on his head. "Maybe you're right, maybe it's a stupid idea. But I want you to know that this has nothing to do with sophisticated rooms or ramshackle trailers. I moved here for _you_ , Daryl. I'd live in a cave for you."

Daryl felt a heavy tingling in his stomach. He was still amazed at Paul's ability to make him feel this way after nine months. Almost a year together and he still had many things to learn about what it meant to love another person.

"Okay," Daryl said after a moment in which only their breaths could be heard. "But I ain’t gonna take care of the decoration."

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

TODAY.

 

The gates of the colony opened with a heavy crunch. The autumn leaves fluttered in the air with the movement of the high steel sheets, welcoming them after an intense day of work. The temperature had already dropped at that hour of the afternoon, but Daryl could still feel the dampness of the sweat that made his clothes stick on him like a second skin.

As soon as he entered, he couldn’t help but notice Tammy's little house on the other side. He smiled. It had only been a couple of weeks since they had finished it—376 square feet with a perfectly equipped kitchen, space for a small living room, a bathroom, a bedroom, and a tiny porch. Norton had wanted to extend the space with a second floor, but Tammy had insisted that she would soon be too old to climb those _damn_ stairs.

Daryl watched the light coming from the kitchen and his chest swelled with pride. They had done a great job, but the same air shot out when his eyes traveled through the colony and landed on the truck that was parked near Barrington House. From there, he could only see a part of the vehicle, but he had no doubt that this was the same truck Paul and Tara had taken eleven days ago.

Daryl rubbed his chest unconsciously, as if his body didn’t understand why his heart had started beating with such sudden vehemence. He should be relieved to see that Paul and Tara were back, but they had returned three days earlier than planned and that could only mean that either the search for school supplies had gone so well that they had decided to come back sooner, or something had happened. Due to the commotion coming from the hospital trailer, Daryl knew it could only be the latter.

"What's going on?" Mandy asked at his side.

Daryl immediately started walking, not bothering to answer a question for which he still had no response himself, and strode toward the place where the vehicle was parked. The trailer’s door was open and Daryl could see everything inside, from desks and stacked books to a blanket and cushions stained with blood.

He could barely process what he was watching before a hand landed on his shoulder. He turned abruptly to find Tara right behind him, offering a broad smile.

"Hello!" she said.

Even before Daryl could respond, Tara lunged at him, giving him a tight hug. He hesitated for a few seconds, still not able to focus, but he finally hugged her back.

"You're back soon."

"Are you complaining?" Tara asked, pulling away from him.

A smile crept across Daryl's lips. "Maybe."

Tara hit his shoulder with her fist and then climbed into the truck. "You should be proud, we got a lot of materials and I brought your boyfriend back without a single scratch."

Daryl watched Tara as she moved around, still feeling his heart pounding against his ribs with unbridled speed. His eyes then settled back on the cushions.

"Where's Paul?"

"In your trailer, he needed some rest. He asked me to take a blue box to Eugene, that should be around here somewhere," Tara remarked absently.

Daryl nodded as Tara rummaged through the trailer.

"What’s that?"

"What?" Tara asked, turning to look at him.

Daryl pointed at the cushions and the blanket. "That."

Tara set her eyes on the only objects that didn’t fit into the pile of school material; she wrinkled her forehead, as if watching them for the first time.

"Ah, yes, uhm… we met a group of people, they were trapped in an alley. There were walkers everywhere," she said, speaking slowly, pondering on every word that came out of her mouth. "We tried to help them, but we didn’t arrive in time. Only one of them managed to survive—a man. He was hurt, he needed help…" Tara fell silent, shrugged, and began to drag to the entrance of the trailer the blue box she had been looking for.

"You brought him here?"

"Yes." Tara jumped down from the truck. Daryl didn’t ignore the fact that she deliberately tried to avoid his questioning look.

"Was he bit?"

"No."

Daryl looked at the cushions again, then turned his attention to Tara, but before he could ask more questions, he noticed someone approaching them. Maggie was coming from the hospital trailer, her expression serious, though she drew a small smile as she nodded at Daryl.

"Where's Paul?" she asked Tara.

"In his trailer, he needed some rest," Tara repeated effortlessly, as if it were a programmed response. "And I was going to do the same now."

"Can you stop by the office before you go? I'd like you to tell me everything you know about Peter. Then I'll talk to Paul."

"Peter?" Daryl asked.

"Yes. Paul and Tara met—"

"It's the person I told you about," Tara interrupted and turned to Maggie. "Let's go to the office now, the sooner we talk, the sooner I can go to bed."

"Okay. Daryl, can you help unload the truck? I would like it empty today. Bring all the materials into the classroom."

The classroom was no more than two trailers that had been placed parallel to each other in one of the expanded areas. Over time, Maggie wanted to build a real school, but for the time being, they had no choice but to use what they had.

Daryl nodded and watched the two women walk toward Barrington House. There was something about the way Tara had behaved that made him suspect that there was much more going on. He glanced at the cushions inside the truck again and then turned his gaze to the hospital trailer. There were people around, trying to act naturally, even though it was obvious that they had come to find out more about the new guest. It wasn’t surprising after a year without a stranger crossing the gates.

Then, Daryl’s eyes traveled from the hospital trailer to his own. The same trailer he’d shared with Rosita and Tara when they had been kicked out of the mansion, and the one where he lived with Paul now. His chest suddenly shrank, aware that Paul was right there after days apart. Daryl could try to convince himself that he had managed to keep his mind busy enough, not focusing too much on his absence, but he realized that he’d missed him much more than he would ever have imagined. He wouldn’t admit it out loud, of course, but he was dying to see the crazy little man again.

The tingle he felt all over his body became more intense as he approached the trailer. He opened the door carefully, making sure that the hinges didn’t reveal his presence with their rusty chant. As soon as he entered, his eyes fell on the floor and all the mud staining the worn wood. Daryl chuckled, shaking his head; Paul must have been terribly tired if he hadn’t bothered to clean it up.

Trying to control the emotions bubbling in his veins, Daryl walked over to the bedroom, and a new smile framed his face when he saw Paul's body occupying the gap he had left empty for almost two weeks. He was lying on his stomach, still wearing all of his clothes; he hadn’t even bothered to take off his boots. His feet protruded over the foot of the bed, as if he had tried to save the comforter from getting tarnished before falling on the mattress.

Still dealing with the feeling of relief invading him, Daryl bent down and began to unzip Paul’s boots. He did it carefully, trying not to wake him up, but just as he managed to pull out the first boot, Paul jerked abruptly, sitting up just enough to draw his knife and point it in his direction. The sudden movement caught Daryl off-guard, causing him to fall backwards on the floor. He lifted his hands in the air, still holding the boot in one of them, and waited for Paul to calm down. His chest rose and fell erratically and his eyes locked on him with something Daryl hadn’t seen in them for a long time: fear.

Daryl wanted to say something, but Paul grunted loudly and let himself fall back onto the bed. Daryl put the boot on the floor and walked around quickly to crouch right next to him.

"Hey, you okay?"

"You scared me," Paul replied, words drowned in the pillow.

Daryl had the urge to caress him, to feel his hair between his fingers again, but Paul twisted his head against the pillow and opened his eyes. The fear seemed to have disappeared from his gaze and Daryl could only see a particular glow in it now. Paul smiled and Daryl did the same. _God_ , he really had missed him.

"You look tired," Daryl remarked.

"I am," he said, fighting the urge to close his eyes again. "Tell me, archer, how much have you missed me?"

Daryl pursed his lips, trying to fight the stupid smile spreading to the corners of his mouth, and scratched his chin, pretending to think of an answer. "Not that much," he finally said.

"Liar," Paul replied, though it seemed that even joking was an effort. "I have something for you."

He moved one hand and rummaged in one of the pockets of his cargo pants until he managed to pull out a small object that he put on the bed. Daryl took it and had to suppress a laugh when he saw the pin with the shape of a cat's head and the inscription _‘I would rather be at home with my cat’_ on it.

When he looked back at Paul, he was smiling broadly, despite clearly fighting the temptation of falling asleep. Daryl leaned forward and pressed his lips on his dirty hair.

"Idiot," Daryl whispered hoarsely.

Paul laughed, even though he had closed his eyes and his response only came in form of a groan. Daryl moved to leave and let him sleep, but Paul grabbed his wrist before he could get too far away.

"Lie down with me."

Daryl felt warmth running through his chest, but he shook his head despite being aware that Paul was not even looking at him.

"I can’t, have things to do… and you smell weird."

Paul let out a muffled laugh and Daryl felt his hand loosen around his wrist. For a moment he actually thought about ignoring everything and lying down next to him. But he snorted reluctantly and left the room after taking off Paul’s other boot and carefully laying a blanket over him.

 

***

 

Despite being a group of ten people, it took them more than three hours to unload everything from the truck. It was dark already when Daryl returned to the trailer and there was nothing else he wanted to do more than that at the moment. He needed to talk to Paul and he could feel his own urgency marking every step he took.

Everyone had been talking about the stranger Paul and Tara had brought to the community; from what Daryl had been able to hear, the man had a major leg injury—a bar had crossed his right thigh and Harlan had needed more than Alex's help to pull it out. Yet, that was not what had caught Daryl’s attention the most, there was another rumor circulating like gunpowder through the community, one that Daryl had tried to turn a deaf ear to without much success.

Any trace of doubt and worry faded from his mind as soon as he entered the trailer. His lips curved slightly when he saw that all the mud on the floor had disappeared, and he could see from there that the bed was made again. He also noticed that the trailer had been ventilated and the fresh and pleasant aroma of soap had replaced the smell of sweat and dirt.

Daryl moved toward the kitchen and saw Paul sitting at the table, carefully examining some papers.

"Hi, love. How was your day?" Paul said in a monotone voice, not even looking up.

Daryl chuckled. "Hey, keep the fireworks, man, you don’t want to burn this place with all that enthusiasm."

Paul cocked his head to look at him and smiled. "I'm saving them for later."

Daryl approached him in only a couple of strides—he couldn’t resist anymore, he wasn’t sure what was wrong with him, maybe it was just that he really had missed him more than he could have imagined was possible, or maybe it was that Paul was looking stupidly handsome. Whatever it was, Daryl was unable to control the desire to taste his lips. He reached the table, took Paul's face into his hands, and captured his mouth in a fiery kiss.

The contact didn’t last, though. Paul felt like a statue under his touch and the only movement he made was to place a hand on his chest to push him away subtly.

Paul was wrinkling his nose when Daryl opened his eyes.

"I've done my part, now it's your turn," Paul said.

Daryl grunted. It was not the first time they had joked about personal hygiene, but there was something about the masked apathy with which Paul had uttered the words that made his stomach twist with immense disappointment. Paul smiled, however, as if trying to make him understand that, indeed, this was only a joke, but his eyes seemed empty and lost. It felt like he was only present with his body, not his mind.

Daryl stepped back, feeling a strange shiver running through him, remembering why he’d felt so much urgency to come back and talk to Paul. His throat tightened suddenly.

"M’sure you wasted all the hot water in the tank already." Daryl would have wished the words had sounded as peaceful as he’d intended them, but he felt restless and was not quite sure why. Not that he would have expected Paul to throw himself into his arms at the sight of him, but the impassiveness he was displaying was not like him, either.

"Probably," Paul replied, returning his attention to the papers.

Daryl turned and went into the bathroom, throwing all his clothes on the floor. In the end, Paul hadn’t wasted all of the hot water in the tank, but Daryl still remained under the stream until the water became so cold that it hurt as it slid over his bare skin.

When he went back to the kitchen, Paul was still sitting in the same place with his attention focused on whatever he was reading.

"Why didn’t you sleep some more?" Daryl asked. "You looked pretty beat before."

"Norton woke me up," he said, pointing at the papers.

Daryl walked over to the table and sat down beside him.

"I thought he was coming to show me the changes we had made to the sketches, but he brought us these plans."

Leaning over the table, Daryl glanced at the plans. This was certainly not a simple sketch; the straight lines were perfectly drawn and bounded. There were arrows with annotations and symbols everywhere that Daryl could not identify.

"What’s this?" he asked, placing a finger on the plan.

"The kitchen."

"And this?"

"A small living room."

"And this?"

"The stairs."

"What’s this?"

Paul laughed, looking at him.

"What?"

"Daryl, seriously, it's not that hard to read a plan," he said, pushing it across the table until he placed it in front of him.

"This was not in the first sketches I saw."

"I know, we still had a few square feet left and I asked Norton to include it. It's a garage."

"A garage?"

"Yeah… I thought that, maybe, you'd like to have a place for your bike and your things, so you can work there if you feel like it."

Daryl hadn’t even thought about it during the first conversations they’d had about the house. They had discussed the essential things it should have, enough for them in such a small space. A kitchen, a small living room, a bathroom, a room that Paul would use as an office and that would also work as a guest-room. Their room would be on the top floor, and somehow, Paul had made Norton fit a small balcony there. Still, it would never have occurred to him to think of something for himself, something he could enjoy, a space that could be his own. He believed that having a place to share his everyday life with Paul would be more than enough, but it was impossible to ignore the butterflies that tickled his stomach right now.

"It's… yeah. It’s great."

Paul laughed and patted him on the shoulder before getting up from the table. "I'm going to cook us some dinner."

Daryl looked at the plan for a few seconds. He still couldn’t believe they were actually doing this. They weren’t simply planning to build a house, they were building their future, and he couldn’t help but feel dizzy about it.

"Where’d you get these tomatoes?" Paul asked, interrupting his thoughts.

Daryl rose quickly from the table. "Leave that, I'll cook."

"Daryl, you've been working all day."

"And you just came back from a long trip."

"I'm fine, I've slept."

"Not enough. Sit down."

Paul snorted at his side, but didn’t sit down. He opened a cupboard and began to take out plates and glasses to set the table.

"Where are those tomatoes from?" he asked again. "Are they from Tammy? They smell very good."

"Alex gave them to me."                                                                          

Daryl could feel Paul turning to face him. "Alex?"

Daryl shrugged. "Maybe he thought I was gonna starve while you’re away."

"Don’t be a dick, it was nice of him."

Daryl just grunted in response as he cut the tomatoes and Paul set the table.

"You have no reason to hate him this much."

"I don’t hate him, but I don’t have to be his friend either."

"You're the stubbornest person I've ever met, Dixon."

"No more than you."

"Don’t mistake determination with stubbornness, archer."

"Whatever you say. Why don’t you tell me ‘bout the trip?"

Daryl didn’t turn to look at him, but he noticed that Paul froze for a second. Then he heard the cutlery on the table again.

"Well, you’ve already seen it. It's been a productive trip. We've managed to gather a lot of things. I don’t know if they're enough, though. Maybe I’ll help Maggie do some inventory tomorrow to see if anything else is needed. You know? I've been thinking that we could take a short break, just you and me. We haven’t gone out together in weeks, it would be a good time to do it, you know? Before winter comes. We could take the horses—I'm sure you haven’t taken Sirius out in the last two weeks, right? I bet Dama is desperate to go out, too. We could go for a few days—a week. I don’t know. Like vacation. I know you've been working hard, you always do, and a break wouldn’t hurt you."

Daryl had turned around to watch him in the middle of his frenzied monologue. Paul had spoken quickly in a clear attempt to spit out all the ideas that crossed his mind while trying to fill the silence he knew would come sooner or later. He was nervous, Daryl could tell without even looking at him; and the fact that he still hadn’t mentioned anything about the stranger they’d brought back with them was beginning to overstrain his patience.

"You just got here and are already thinking about goin’ out again?" Daryl asked huskily.

Paul shifted and turned his gaze from him to the dishes he’d just placed on the table. Then he shrugged. "I just want to spend some time with you alone."

"What’s wrong?"

Paul raised his head to meet Daryl's accusing look. "Nothing is—"

"Don’t give me that shit, Paul. Is there any reason you still haven’t mentioned the guy you brought here?"

Daryl noticed that Paul's face lost some of its color, but he didn’t move a single muscle. "What did you hear?"

"Enough," Daryl replied gravely.

"That doesn’t answer my question."

"Yours doesn’t answer mine either."

"There’s not much to say, we met his group, all but him died. He was injured, he needed help, and we decided to bring him here."

"I know the details, Paul, the only thing I don’t understand is why bringing a stranger to the colony doesn’t seem to be important enough for you to tell me before anythin’ else. Is there something you don’t want me to know?"

Daryl had heard the rumors, he knew what was being said about the man named Peter Bennett, but given the circumstances and the way Paul was acting, he wanted to find out if he would tell him, or would pretend he didn’t know what he was talking about, as he had done up to that point.

Paul groaned loudly, rubbing his face with both hands. He not only looked tired, but his face seemed to have aged suddenly.

"It’s obvious you already know, what else do you want me to say?"

"The fuckin’ truth, Paul."

The air turned dense around them, creating an exhausting silence. Daryl looked closely at Paul and the subtle way he shifted while moving his hands uneasily, as if he didn’t know what to do with them. He scratched his forehead; sometimes he placed them on his hips, or rubbed them on his clothes, trying to get rid of the nervous sweat. His pale face seemed to have lost any trace of blood.

"We know each other from high school," he said finally and shrugged. "That’s all."

Daryl shook his head; he knew there had to be more. He had shared too many critical moments with Paul. Hell, he had practically seen him lead a war against the saviors and risk his life for others selflessly. And yet, he had never seen him behave like he was doing right now. Paul was stressed and overwhelmed by the presence of a single man who, in addition, was injured, and still Paul seemed ready to run away from Hilltop like a frightened gazelle.

"What else is there that you don’t wanna tell me?"

Paul shifted uneasily, even Daryl saw his hands shaking as he closed them into a fist. Then, without a word, he turned and left the kitchen.

"Damn it, Paul! Where are you going?" Daryl exclaimed and followed.

"I'm not hungry anymore."

"Is that all? At what point did you become a coward?"

"I don’t want to argue with you, Daryl."

"We ain’t arguing, we—"

"We will if we continue this conversation," he cut Daryl off, turning and forcing him to stop in the middle of the short hallway.

Daryl moved his lips to speak, but someone knocked on the door.

"The fuck is it?" Daryl snapped.

There was a brief moment of silence before the person on the other side of the door answered, "Eugene."

Without taking his eyes off Paul, Daryl reached out a hand to grab the knob. Paul took that moment to step back.

"Hello," Eugene replied as soon as Daryl opened the door. "Uhm… Isn’t Jesus here?" he laughed nervously then. "What a stupid question, I know he is, because I've heard him talk—oh, you're there," he said, looking over to Paul as he stumbled with words. It was obvious that he’d heard a part of the conversation. "I just came to show my appreciation for the new radio you brought me. It's very possible that I can use some of its pieces to fix the one in the library—Were you two having a conflict of coexistence due to misunderstanding?"

"What the f—?"

"It’s okay, Eugene, you're welcome," Paul answered hastily, approaching the door. "We'll talk about the radio tomorrow." Paul closed the door and looked at Daryl, who still frowned intensely. "Can’t you be nicer to him?"

"I would, if I understood half of the shit he says—don’t change the subject."

Paul sighed, bowing his head. "Can’t you just let it go for once?" he asked in a whisper.

"You're scarin’ me, Paul."

Daryl took a step closer, but when he tried to touch him, Paul jerked back. Guilt showed up on Paul’s face immediately, aware of his unexpected reaction, while Daryl’s eyes went wide with surprise.

"What's wrong?" Daryl asked, but Paul walked into the bedroom. Daryl followed him. "Is he an ex-boyfriend or somethin’? ‘Cause if it’s that, I don’t really give a fuck."

Paul turned back to look at him, his eyes darkened in a fraction of a second, but he didn’t answer, just shook his head and dropped down on the edge of the bed. His gaze now fixed on the floor.

Daryl could feel his own anxiety creeping through his body. He wanted to get close to Paul, he wanted to know what was happening to him, but he didn’t want to press him any further, because it was obvious that this whole situation was escalating completely.

He thought of turning around and leaving him alone, but he didn’t feel capable of doing something like that, either.

"Paul—"

"Remember that silly story I told you about my first time?"

His words filled the air in a whisper, but it had been more than enough for Daryl to hear them. Paul didn’t add anything else, didn’t even lift his head to look at him after speaking. His eyes closed as he let the embarrassment fall on him like a waterfall.

Daryl felt a cold sweat spread across his skin, his heart beating erratically while his chest moved quickly, desperately seeking more air. Of course he remembered the story that was far from being _silly_. Suddenly, he wanted to ask many questions to break the stifling silence that had grown in the room, but his mouth went dry. His instincts told him to grab his crossbow, storm into the hospital trailer, and bury a fucking bolt between that son of a bitch’s eyes. He wanted to do something— _anything_ that could ease the pain tormenting Paul and compensate the helplessness threatening to devour him.

He realized, though, that what Paul needed the most right now was him by his side, so he crouched in front of him and reached a hand out carefully, expectantly. When he saw that Paul made no strange gesture, he laid it on his arm and caressed him.

"I feel like a complete idiot," Paul said.

"Why?"

"It happened twenty years ago, Daryl."

"You were just a kid."

"I'm not a kid anymore."

"So what? Yer not a fucking rock, Paul, even if you keep trying to make everyone believe that."

Paul looked at him for a moment, then rested his eyes on his nervous hands. Daryl took them in his.

"I don’t know if I've done the right thing," he said softly. "I feel like I can’t think straight right now. My brain keeps going back to that day, over and over again."

"What would you have done if you hadn’t known him?"

Paul thought about it. "Probably the same thing."

"You are such a good man."

Finally, Paul lifted his head, staring at him, then released one of his hands to touch Daryl's cheek who couldn’t help but close his eyes and enjoy the simple contact.

"I've missed you so much," Paul said, leaning forward and wounding his arms around Daryl's neck in an intense and almost desperate hug.

"I've missed you, too."

"I knew it…"

Daryl smiled and moved his head slightly, letting the roughness of Paul's beard brush against his cheek.

"Let's go out, Daryl," Paul said, pulling away. "I mean it. Let's get the horses and go out for a few days. Maybe by the time we get back, he’ll be gone."

There was anguish in Paul's words, a grief that clawed at Daryl's chest with a distress he had become unaccustomed to. But Daryl shook his head. "I ain’t running away, and you shouldn’t either. You're not that vulnerable kid anymore. Show this fucker the man you've become."

Paul watched him for a long second, but there was no reply, not even a small gesture.

"Promise me one thing," he said after a moment in which he had barely blinked. "Promise me you won’t go near him."

Daryl looked at him in puzzlement. "What do you fear he can do to me?"

"I'm not afraid of what he can do to you, I fear what you can do to _him_."

Daryl fell silent. Actually, there was nothing he wanted to do more right now than to go over, rip his balls off, and shove them down his fucking throat. Daryl was not sure if he would be able to control himself if that man crossed his path. He hadn’t seen him face to face yet and his blood was already bubbling like boiling water.

Paul took his face with both hands, forcing him out of his thoughts, and Daryl saw the concern in his eyes.

"Daryl, promise me."

He licked his lips before answering and when he did, he knew immediately that keeping his word was going to be almost impossible.

"I, uh… I promise."


	6. 04

9 MONTHS AGO.

 

"I think I put the horses in a safe place," Daryl said, shaking the snow from his hair and clothes after entering the tiny cabin.

"I don’t think there are walkers around here anyway, too steep and not much to eat," Paul muttered, crouching beside the large stone fireplace occupying most of the floor.

The night had already fallen and the cabin had only two small windows, one by the door and the other opposite to the fireplace. There was a wooden table, some chairs, two rudimentary bunks in one of the corners, and a pile of cut wood that was waiting for hikers that no longer would arrive. It still had taken Paul a few minutes to light a fire that would warm and light up the room.

"Then I hope you have food in one of those backpacks," Daryl said, coming closer and sitting next to him, rubbing his hands together. "It’s snowing like crazy and it's too late to go out huntin’."

"What a shame, no squirrels for dinner today. I don’t know if I’ll be able to survive this," Paul said with a suppressed smile.

Daryl rolled his eyes. "Shut up, last time I cooked some you enjoyed it."

"I felt guilty though," Paul laughed.

"If eating _cute_ animals is too much for you, you can always try worms. Ugly little fuckers, but good protein sources, ain’t too bad if they’re grilled. Maybe they’d weigh less on yer conscience."

Paul wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Don’t tell me you’re snacking on worms while you’re out in the woods."

"Better than starving."

"I guess…" For a moment he looked at him with concern. "Did you really have to eat them?"

"Yes—ate them uncooked, just shoved them down my throat."

"Daryl…"

"Felt’em moving, tryin’ to crawl back out."

"Daryl!"

Daryl chuckled into his hands, still trying to warm them up. "Last time was before we found Alexandria. Didn’t find no food or water in days."

Paul grimaced.

"What? I'm sure you've put more disgustin’ things in your mouth anyway."

Paul laughed, got up, and walked behind Daryl. "Probably, yes." He put his hands on Daryl’s shoulders and slid them down his chest to wrap his arms around him. "You should take off your clothes," he whispered in his ear.

Daryl turned his head slightly, his cheek meeting Paul's lips. "Already thinking of getting me naked?"

"Always… but right now, I’m more worried about you getting sick. Your clothes are soaked."

"So are yours."

Paul kissed his cold cheek and pulled away from him, removing his wet coat and vest, and after a few seconds of fighting with his boots, he also got rid of his pants. He threw them in Daryl's face, who laughed without taking his eyes off him. Paul then took one of the two backpacks he had carried with him and pulled out dry clothes.

"Ya brought clothes?" Daryl asked, raising his eyebrows in surprise.

"Of course, how many trips to the mountains have you done, archer? You have to be prepared."

"Sure… and for some reason, I suspect ending up in this cabin was no accident, right?"

"Well, I didn’t expect to be surprised by a snowstorm, if that's your question."

"Ain’t my question." Daryl rose from his chair and began to undress. "Tell me why I keep listenin’ to you," he muttered under his breath.

"Because you love me."

"That’s up for discussion. Now confess, Monroe, what are we doin’ here exactly?"

Paul laughed, handing him the clean clothes he had brought for him. It was getting harder for Daryl to even pretend he was irritated by Paul’s quirkiness. Not even when Paul asked him to make a day trip to the mountains on horseback, without giving him any more details.

It had been three months since the war and they were enjoying the new life they had started together at Hilltop. Maggie led with ease and determination, and during the last few weeks, they had been working hard on the organization of different roles that each of them would occupy in the community.

Everything had worked out perfectly and the two seemed to have become accustomed to a quiet and ordinary life. Yet there were many uncharted territories to discover and study, and both Paul and Daryl were two dauntless souls who loved to go outside and explore the life that still existed on the other side of the walls. So they had reached a point when those sudden trips no longer needed an excuse for either of them.

After putting the wet clothes on a rope that was fastened to the wall by the fireplace, they sat down in front of the fire.

"Paul…"

"Okay. On the last trip I made to Alexandria, I talked to Eugene, he says he wants to go back to Hilltop and spend some time there to work on the radio that’s in the library."

"Why is he so obsessed with that fuckin’ radio?"

"Because he says that if he manages to make it work, we could establish communications between communities. Sounds like a great idea to me."

"And what does that have to do with you and me in a shitty cabin in the middle of nowhere with a snowstorm raging outside?"

"Making the radio work won’t be enough. Alexandria and the Kingdom would also need to have similar ones, even those hypothetical outposts we were talking about the other day."

"Okay, we need more radios…" Daryl looked around. "Are we gonna find ‘em here?"

Paul chuckled at Daryl’s growing impatience. "We don’t just need radios, Daryl, we need relay stations to cover long distance connections."

"So we're lookin’ for relay stations."

"We are not looking for them—I know there’s one on top of this mountain. I want to check its state."

Daryl tilted his head, still absorbing the information. "And we couldn’t have waited until it’s warmer to do that?"

"Where is the fun in lighting a fireplace when it’s hot outside?"

"Why do you wanna light a damn fireplace so bad?"

"Simple romantic value," Paul replied with a shrug and then turned to look at Daryl with an innocent look. ~~~~

Daryl snorted and shook his head, giving up. "Great, so we're trapped on a mountain because you were feelin’ romantic."

Paul rose from his chair and stood in front of Daryl, placing himself between his knees. Then he crouched down and put both hands on Daryl’s thighs, sliding them up until he rested them on his stomach. Paul could feel the tension in Daryl's muscles beneath his palms. Slowly, Paul lifted the sweater he had brought for him, revealing a part of his lower belly, and bent over to lay his lips on the exposed skin. Paul heard Daryl’s choked breath and looked up at him with a smirk.

"Let's see if you’ll still think this was a bad idea tomorrow."

 

* * *

 

TODAY.

 

Paul opened the trailer’s door knowing that he would find Daryl sitting on the entrance steps. The morning was fresh and the sky was thick with gray clouds, but that didn’t seem to bother Daryl, who had been smoking there for a while.

Cat followed Paul, tangling between his legs and running outside as soon as there was enough space for his slender body.

"The other day, Brianna told me he was having a lot of fun huntin’ for mice," Daryl said, as he watched Cat.

Paul made a disgusted sound. "Mice… I hope he doesn’t bring them back home." He sat down next to Daryl.

Daryl studied him curiously. "Still can’t believe you're afraid of them."

"I'm not afraid; you know what my problem is—I just… don’t like them," he said, handing him one of the two steaming mugs he was carrying. "Roasted coffee; souvenir from the trip."

"Does it taste of anything?"

"Let's check it out."

They both savored the hot drink silently as they watched the overflowing activity of the community. Paul appreciated the distraction for a few minutes, but his body quickly tensed, aware of what he had to face inescapably.

The night hadn’t been easy, and although neither of them had touched the subject again, Paul had hardly slept, and he was quite sure that Daryl hadn’t either. He thought the coffee might help him ease the tiredness clinging to his muscles like a hungry parasite, but he was not sure if it was the best method to settle the nerves that spread through his stomach, an anxiety that hadn’t left him since the moment Peter Bennett had pronounced his name.

The hours awake had given him a moment—exhausting at times—to think of what to do. Daryl was right, he had to face the problem as the grown man he was. Of course it was a lot easier said than done, and his chest contracted painfully every time he thought about the moment he had to sit down face-to-face with Peter.

Paul let out the air that was so hard for him to breathe. He had to stop thinking about himself and focus on Hilltop. Peter was a stranger to this community and he was responsible for his presence on this side of the walls.

"You good?" Daryl asked in his hoarse voice after a few minutes of silence.

Paul took a deep breath, letting the cold, wet environment fill him inside. "I will be," he replied, drawing a hard smile that he was more than sure wouldn’t be enough to convince Daryl. "Don’t worry."

"Whenever you say ‘don’t worry’, you make me feel more worried than I already was."

Paul placed a hand on Daryl’s lower back and caressed him with tenderness. Sometimes it was still difficult for him to comprehend that there was someone by his side willing to do anything for him. He wanted to say something to try to erase the trail of uneasiness that deepened the lines on Daryl’s forehead, but the words remained unsaid.

"Come with us," Daryl said. "The outpost is almost finished, come and take a look, give us your—"

Paul had begun to shake his head even before Daryl had stopped speaking. "I will, but not today."

"What are you gonna do?"

"My job. Make sure everything is in complete order in the community." Paul paused. "And therefore, I have to talk to Bennett."

Daryl snorted and shifted on the step, but Paul wouldn’t let him speak. "I _have_ to talk to him, Daryl. I brought him here; I have to make sure he is not a threat to Hilltop."

"And I suppose that didn’t cross yer damn mind _before_ crossin’ these walls, huh?" Daryl snapped, irritated.

"Of course it did! But if we had waited, maybe the man would be missing a leg today, or worse."

"And who the fuck cares? Ya could’ve taken him to his camp and they would’ve taken care of the problem."

Paul stood up with a grunt. The last thing he needed was to have a fight with Daryl. "Arguing with you is like talking to a fucking wall sometimes," he said, opening the door and entering the trailer again.

Daryl got up and followed him. "Am I wrong?"

Paul put his mug in the sink, ducked his head and laid his hands on the wooden counter. _No_ , he was not wrong. The best thing they could have done was to take Peter to his camp the moment they had discovered that he really had one. However, for some reason, Paul had believed him when he’d said there was no one there to help him and he hadn’t wanted to risk going to another community, exposing themselves openly, without knowing exactly what they might be facing.

"Dixon!" The two men turned when they heard Dante's voice outside. "C’mon, man, keep it in your goddamn pants for a few hours! It's getting late!"

Daryl exhaled with exasperation but didn’t move; his eyes met Paul's again. "Yesterday you were ready to run away and today—"

"Someone told me that I should grow some balls and act like a man. That's what I'm going to do."

"Dixon!"

This time it was Mandy's voice. Grumbling, Daryl walked to the door, yanking it open. "Can you give me five fuckin’ minutes, assholes? I’m busy here."

"At least he's wearing his pants," Dante teased.

Even from there, Paul could hear their laughter, and for a second, all the problems squeezing his brain vanished. That was the daily life he’d longed for since the world had ended. Back to experiencing something like a normal life where the main concern was to arrive in time to a job for which they didn’t even have schedules anymore.

Paul sighed and looked at Daryl.

"Let someone else do it," Daryl suggested.

"I'm not going to let anyone else take over my responsibilities. Things don’t work that way, Daryl." Paul stepped closer to him and took the mug he still held in his hands. "I'll be fine, don’t—"

"Don’t say it… _don’t_ say it."

"DIXON!"

"I swear I'm gonna kill them."

"Go, before I kick you out of here myself."

Daryl seemed to think about it for a moment, but he finally planted a quick kiss on Paul's lips and left the trailer.

Paul watched them walk away through one of the small windows. Daryl kept turning to look back in the trailer’s direction; a smile formed on Paul’s lips, but it disappeared the moment the gates closed. All of a sudden, he felt his body go weak, as if an invisible force was pushing it, and the air became dense and unbearable.

He collapsed on the couch hesitantly. This was going to be a very long day.

 

***

 

The aseptic smell was the first thing he noticed when he entered the hospital trailer. They had expanded the place by adding a new trailer after its owner, a man named Ashton, had died a few weeks after the war. It had been a natural death and fortunately they had found out before the man had opened his eyes again.

Building a more appropriate hospital was another of Maggie's ambitions, but that would be a complex project that would require more time to think about. At the moment, the two trailers had the function of giving more space and separating the area where Harlan and Alex attended the patients with common illnesses from the area where they had a small operating room and two beds for the patients who needed intensive care.

Besides Alex, Harlan also had the help of Lizzy Jacobson now, a young nurse who had come from The Kingdom, recommended by Ezekiel himself. Although, there were rumors that the real reason Lizzy had moved to Hilltop was her close friendship with one of the colony's guards. Paul couldn’t care less—any help was welcome, but he was more than glad to see that only Alex was in the trailer at this moment.

Alex smiled broadly and approached him to give him a warm hug. "I'm glad to see you back," he said as they pulled away.

"I'm glad to be back, too."

"I bet you are."

Alex looked good; his blond hair was longer than usual and curled slightly at the back of his neck. His blue eyes were more vivid, not framed by the dark circles that had accompanied him throughout the fight against the saviors. He definitely looked more relaxed than ever, and Paul was glad for it.

"How's Peter?" Paul asked, not wasting any time.

"He's sleeping right now. The operation was more complicated than we'd originally expected, but Harlan did a good job. The problem now is the infection; with these types of wounds you never know… not all antibiotics work and he still had a fever this morning."

Paul accepted his words with a simple nod and followed Alex while he prepared a steel tray with meds and different medical supplies.

"Did he say anything while he was awake?"

"Well, the first thing he said while we were preparing for the operation was that you were childhood friends."

"He said that?"

"I think he wanted to make sure we weren’t going to cut off his leg or something. The problem is that there were more people here waiting for treatment," Alex said, nodding toward the waiting room. "And you know these walls are as thin as paper. It’s been a quiet but boring year when it comes to gossip…"

Paul snorted. "Did he say anything else, anything relevant?"

"Not really, but he _did_ ramble on and on about how well he knew you and how close you were. I suppose he really was nervous and scared we’d not treat him right otherwise. But it was enough to make me feel, I don’t know, uncomfortable, I guess." Alex leaned over to speak in a low voice. "I gave him an extra dose of tranquilizers just to shut him up. Don’t tell Harlan."

Alex winked at him and went on with what he was doing. Paul couldn’t help but smile, feeling some relief. It was comforting to know that he could still count on Alex and see that their relationship had not cooled down as he had feared, especially after what had happened between them.

"Do you think I'll be able to talk to him? I mean, having a lucid conversation when he wakes up."

"He should rest, but if you want to talk to him, he will be as tame as a teddy bear."

Paul accepted Alex's words and didn’t add anything else, keeping quiet long enough for the nurse to raise an eyebrow and look at him quizzically. The trailer’s door opened before Alex could ask him any questions and Brianna stepped inside.

"Good morning, Alex. Good morning, Jesus."

"Good morning," the two of them answered in unison.

Alex set the tray aside and walked over to her. "Can you give us a minute?" he asked the woman in that gentle, professional tone that characterized him. "I’ll be with you in a moment."

Brianna thanked him and sat down in one of the four chairs in the small waiting room. Alex pulled the door shut to give them some privacy and returned to Paul's side.

Since the end of the war, and after being overwhelmed with some of the wounded that had been transferred to Hilltop, Alex had made the effort to learn as much as he could to offer Harlan much more than the help of a simple nurse. So it was not rare to see him taking care of some of the patients that came to the consultation himself. While Alex freed Harlan from these less urgent cases, the doctor could take care of the people who needed a more specific medical care.

"Are you okay?" Alex asked.

Until that moment, Paul had been sure he had managed to keep his turmoil well hidden, so that question almost took him by surprise. He didn’t want to let the past cloud his judgment; he had to deal with Peter Bennett with all the impartiality he could muster, something he had proposed to himself, almost as a challenge, before leaving the trailer. If he didn’t do it for him, at least he had to do it for Hilltop. But Alex was too observant, always had been, he was able to see far beyond words; maybe that was why he was good for this job.

"What about you? How are you doing?" Paul replied. "How's everything with Wes?"

Alex laughed. "It's not a very subtle way to change the subject, Paul… but it's okay. I'll let you know as soon as Peter wakes up."

Paul patted him affectionately on the shoulder and headed for the exit. "By the way, thanks for the tomatoes," he said before saying goodbye to Brianna.

Everything seemed quiet at Barrington House. During the day the mansion was usually deserted while everyone was out working. He had only met two people; one of them was Milton, a man of about fifty, tall and ungainly. From what Paul knew of him, he had run a hotel in the past, so he supposed that that was the reason he seemed to be so happy of making sure the house was always spotless.

Milton had informed him that Maggie was in her room. Paul knew Maggie wanted to talk to him about Peter, but the day before he hadn’t found the strength to deal with it, and he didn’t have much to say about it anyway.

Paul knocked on the door, unsure if Maggie could hear him over little Hershel’s crying. Tara opened only a few seconds later, looking at him with something similar to a relieved expression.

"Save me, please," she said, stepping aside to let him in.

Maggie was standing by the bed and looked quite exhausted as she tried to change Hershel’s diapers while the baby writhed over the sheets.

It had only been a few weeks since Hershel had turned seven months, and Maggie and Glenn's son was the spitting image of his parents. His soft dark hair was curly at the ends, his big eyes were round with a slight curve to them, reminding of his father, and had a darker green color than his mother.

"Please, Hershel…"

"Why don’t you just let him run around without diapers? Free as a chimpanzee," Tara commented.

"First, because he hasn’t started to walk yet, and second, because I won’t let my son crawl around doing his _business_ everywhere like an animal."

"Well, that's what we are in the end."

Maggie finished with Hershel and handed him to Tara. The woman took him in her arms, watching him like she didn’t know what to do while the baby still babbled in disgust.

"I’m not very good with babies, Maggie," Tara cried.

"Tara, you told me that you were free and Brianna is not feeling well. It will only be a few hours, I have to do the inventory for the school and I also have to check how Peter is doing. Check what resources we have used for him and what we are going to do once he feels better. I have to go see Paul to—"

"He's right here," Tara said, placing Hershel in his arms.

Maggie turned in surprise. "I didn’t see you."

"I've noticed. You look a little stressed," Paul said as he rocked Hershel, trying to calm him down.

" _I am_ stressed—now everyone wants to build a house, but not everyone is happy with the random allocation of the plots. So they come here trying to convince me to change them. There are no sea views, for goodness’ sake! Walls surround us, who cares where the houses are located? I have to do the school inventory and think about the interviews to find teachers…"

Paul and Tara shared a sympathetic look.

"Daryl and his troop have been asking me to go to the outpost to see how it’s progressing, but I haven’t had any time. Eugene keeps chasing me, telling me I don’t know what about the radio in the library, and now we have this Peter Bennett making people nervous. He hasn’t left the hospital trailer yet and today _three_ people came to ask me what I’m going to do with the _foreigner_ who is wasting our meds."

Something fluttered in Paul's stomach. "Maggie, don’t worry about Peter, I'll take care of that," Paul said, glancing at Hershel. The baby seemed to have calmed down and now was entertaining himself with the zipper of his jacket. Then he looked at Tara, gesturing with his head.

"What—huh, yeah… uhm… don’t worry, I'll take care of Hershel. But I warn you right now that I won’t take responsibility if he ends up with a badly wrapped diaper."

"Thank you, thank you," Maggie said, kissing the three of them. "I love you."

Without another word, Maggie hurried out of the room.

"Don’t leave me alone," Tara said, eyes fixed on the door.

"He’s just a baby, Tara. Didn’t you say you had a niece?"

"Yes, but my sister never let me alone with her before she could walk. I don’t know how to deal with this tiny thing alone. I promise to bring you all the packs of condoms I can find."

Paul couldn’t help but laugh. "You all make it sound like we spend the whole day—" he looked at the boy in his arms, " _copulating_ like animals."

"Isn’t that true?"

"We no longer use condoms anyway."

"Oh, God! I didn’t need that information! You dirty fuckers."

"Watch your mouth in front of the kid."

"He’s a baby, he doesn’t understand a thing."

"That's exactly why you have nothing to worry about." Paul handed the boy back to Tara and moved toward the door. "I have to go talk to Eugene."

"Are you going to abandon me for Eugene?" she asked, following him.

"I also have to talk to Peter Bennett."

"Let _me_ talk to Bennett. Ten minutes alone with him and I'll make him spit out the darkest of his secrets."

For a split second Paul felt the blood stagnate in his veins.

"Tara, he’s just a baby, he sleeps and eats—"

"And poops and weeps."

"You'll do fine," Paul added, opening the door. "It’s in our nature, we are born to procreate."

"No, it’s not in my nature, and it’s not in yours either. Jesus—"

"See you later."

Paul kissed Tara's forehead, then Hershel's. The baby was already falling asleep in the woman's arms when he left the room.

Finding Eugene didn’t take him long. As he had imagined, he was in the library struggling with the radio. He had spread out a pile of perfectly aligned pieces on one of the long and sturdy wooden tables. The man was so focused on what he was doing that he jumped in his seat when he noticed that Paul was right in front of him.

"You scared me."

"Is this the radio I brought you yesterday?" he asked, looking at the fragments the man was working on.

"Yes, many of these pieces are in an optimal state to be reused."

Paul cocked his head. "How long have you been working on this?"

"Started yesterday."

"Have you slept at all?" Eugene shrugged. "You know what? You should go outside, lend us a hand with our security plans, I'm sure your ideas would work for us."

"I’m doing it already," he said without taking his eyes off what he was doing. "The radio is important for security."

Knocks on the double door diverted their attention. Alex came in, but he only took a couple of steps inside. "Peter is awake," he said.

Paul felt a slight pressure on his chest. "Okay… thanks. I'll be there in a minute."

Alex nodded and then left the library. Paul pressed the bridge of his nose where he felt a deep tension and sighed. "Okay…" Paul said, turning back to Eugene. "Do you need anything else?"

"High Performance Solar Panels."

"High Performance Solar Panels?" he repeated, raising his voice without even noticing it.

"Yes, as I said to you, once the radio is working, we need the relay stations to work as well to be able to establish the communications. Relay stations need electricity and solar panels are the best way to produce it."

"Okay. High Performance Solar Panels. I'll note it down on the endless list of Christmas gifts."

"You know what? There's a study that says that sarcastic people are three times more creative."

Paul looked at Eugene who was speaking like a robot while he kept working.

"Really? Great. Oscar Wilde had a similar opinion on that." Paul rubbed his face, suddenly feeling exhausted. "Have a good day, Eugene."

"You shouldn’t worry," Eugene remarked before Paul could leave the room. "Seventy percent of unmarried couples break up during the first year of relationship."

Paul blinked repeatedly, not sure he'd heard him correctly. "Excuse me?"

Eugene looked at him with that impassive expression of his. "If you decided to end the relationship, there wouldn’t be a reason for you to feel guilty or sad about it. It wouldn’t be your fault, it’s just simple statistics."

Paul tilted his head slowly. "Thank you… I'll have it in mind."

"Good. Have a pleasant day."

Paul's pulse quickened as soon as he walked out of Barrington House and set his eyes on the hospital trailer. He had managed to remain calm for a good part of the morning, but the prospect of having to sit face to face with Peter Bennett stirred up the feelings he’d been trying to fight against.

He took a deep breath and entered the trailer. There was no one in the waiting room, but he could hear Alex's voice as he spoke to someone in the office. Paul sat down in one of the chairs and waited patiently. A few minutes later, the door opened and Alex escorted Earl Sutton to the exit. The blacksmith greeted Paul by showing him his newly bandaged hand.

"Perks of the job, son," the man said.

After Alex closed the door, he turned to Paul and gestured for him to follow. They walked through the office to the door they had built to connect the two trailers.

"If you need anything, I'll be right here," Alex said, opening the door and letting Paul inside.

Paul thanked him and went into the room. It was a small place, although large enough to accommodate two beds and the necessary machines and utensils for patients. The beds were placed next to each of the windows on the opposing walls. In the front, a partition separated that room from the space they had enabled as an operating room.

Peter was in the bed to his left and he’d turned to look at him as soon as he’d heard the door. He looked exhausted and his blue eyes were glowing with fever.

"Looks like today’s my lucky day," he said in a tired voice.

Paul picked up one of the two chairs in the room and placed it next to Peter's bed. "Why is that?"

"First the leader of the colony visited me, and now her right hand man."

"Who says I’m her right hand man?"

"No one needs to—it’s the way they talk about you. No one questions you, the doctor or the nurse, or Maggie… it’s Maggie, right?"

Paul settled into his chair, taking a firm stance, despite the knot strangling his stomach. "So Maggie came to see you."

"Yes… she wanted to see how I was doing. She also said that once I feel better, we would talk about how I’ll pay for the meds."

Paul just nodded in response. "How do you feel?"

"Tired and sore, but I’m not complaining."

"You shouldn’t."

"I know that the most reasonable thing would’ve been to leave me there, Paul. I'm not an idiot. But you didn’t. I’m grateful for what you’ve done. This place is… amazing."

"It is. Tell me about your community, Peter."

"What do you want to know?"

"I want to know how you subsist. You said that the land is not good enough to grow and that you don’t have many scouts."

Peter inhaled a breath of air that he let out slowly. "And now we have even less…" he said regretfully.

There was a part of Paul that felt sorry for him and the people who had died in that alley. But he was also aware that they had been setting up a trap for him and Tara.

"How do you survive?" Paul asked again, hardening his tone.

"I'm a little too tired to—"

"Answer the question, Peter."

Bennett grunted, trying to settle in the bed. "I assure you… you don’t want to know."

"Peter."

"We steal. Okay? They call us _Scavengers_ , but you know what? I think there is some Robin Hood in what we do; we simply take away from those who have more to feed our own—our children."

"Stealing what others have worked hard for isn’t something I would consider heroic. _Especially_ if traps are involved that threaten their lives."

"We only wanted to distract you, we didn’t mean any harm—things just went completely wrong. But that’s not what we usually do; we go in without making any noise, take what we need, and go out. It’s as simple as that. They don’t notice we’ve been there until they see that something’s missing. We never attack people—unless we fear for our lives, of course."

"Who are _they_?"

"There are two communities in the north. They are big, maybe bigger than yours."

Paul leaned forward subtly, listening intently. "Do they have resources?"

"Many."

"And why haven’t you joined them?"

"Because they won’t accept us. We have gained a certain reputation, you know? I already told you, they call us Scavengers."

"What are these communities like?"

"One of them is a town, surrounded by walls, very similar to the ones I can see here," he said, pointing to the window. "The other one is bigger and the walls are much stronger. Accessing it is more difficult and they are definitely more dangerous. They tried to attack our camp once."

"What happened?"

"What?"

"You said they _tried_ to attack the camp, I guess they didn’t in the end. What happened?"

Peter hesitated a few seconds before answering. "We ambushed them."

Paul leaned back in his chair again, watching Peter with a disquieting interest. "Are you sure you're telling me the truth, Peter?"

The man frowned. "Of course I'm telling you the truth, why would I lie about something like that?"

"You ambushed them?"

"Yes."

"Then they are not as dangerous as you say."

"They are many, and they have weapons, a lot of weapons."

"And yet you, who according to what you’re saying have so little, were able to stop them."

"We're good at surviving."

"It didn’t look like it yesterday."

Peter's jaw tightened. "We knew they were coming for us, we just attacked first, caught them off guard, and saved innocent people. Can you blame us for that?"

"Haven’t they tried to attack again? Avenge?"

"They don’t know what happened, we killed them all and got rid of the bodies. I guess they didn’t expect us to be able to do something like that."

"You realize this isn’t really encouraging for us right now, don’t you?"

"Are you telling me you haven’t shed blood to protect your own people, Paul Monroe?"

He had, and although it was not something he was proud of, he knew he would do it again if necessary. But there was still something about the man lying in front of him that made his hair rise up whenever their eyes met. Paul hoped it was only his mind asking for prudence, and not his inability to detach himself from a past he thought he had completely erased from his memory.

Peter cleared his throat, his face contorting in pain as he tried to change his position in bed. Then he exhaled loudly. "I understand what you're doing," he said. "I know you're just trying to protect your people, but I'm not a threat. How can I convince you of that?"

"You didn’t look like a threat when I got in your car either, Peter," Paul replied, less firmness in his voice than he would have wanted.

Peter looked at him sorrowfully. "I was an arrogant, stupid teenager."

"Yeah, whose greatest concern was what others might think of him."

"I'm not that kid anymore."

"No, now you’re a man who has just confessed to rob others. I have brought a thief into this colony."

"I won’t steal from you, damn it!" he said, raising his voice. "You ask these questions because you want the truth. Well, I'm telling you the truth."

Paul stared impassively at Pater, still struggling on the bed.

"Is your brother a scout too?"

Peter sighed, visibly exhausted. "Yes."

"Where was he yesterday?"

"He stayed in the camp."

"Are you sure?"

Peter grumbled, he seemed to be losing his patience and that was exactly what Paul wanted.

"He didn’t want to come with us this time, and frankly, I'm glad he didn’t."

"Is there a possibility that your brother and others might have been out of your camp and could have seen us? Is there a possibility that they could have followed us, Peter?"

Peter pinned his ice-blue eyes on Paul's, but he was not able to read what he saw in them. Then Peter closed them and exhaled again. "I don’t know… I just don’t know," he replied, showing himself defeated and lowering his voice until it became a whisper.

Paul started to get up to leave, but Peter spoke again. "Can’t we just have a normal conversation? I’m sure we have plenty of things to catch up on, and this right now looks like an interrogation. Were you a cop in your other life or something like that?"

"I worked at a bar; I guess I got used to making simple small talk."

Paul was surprised to hear Peter's laugh. "I feel bad for your customers if this is what simple small talk looks like to you."

"I better go now, you should rest."

"Who is Daryl?" Peter asked unexpectedly, stopping Paul from getting up again.

Hearing Daryl’s name coming out from Peter’s mouth was enough to send a chill through Paul’s spine. "Why do you ask?" ~~~~

"Because, apart from yours and Maggie's, his is the name I've heard the most."

"You have heard many things for someone who hasn’t moved from this bed since we arrived."

"Well, the walls aren’t exactly made out of concrete and since I don’t know this place, you can’t blame me for wanting to know more about the people I’m dealing with here."

Paul studied him for a brief moment and then he got up. "Get some rest, Peter," he said unwillingly before leaving.

Alex got up from the table in the small office as soon as Paul closed the door behind him. Lizzy was next to one of the cabinets, searching for something. The young woman gave him a smile the moment she saw him.

"So, how was it?" Alex asked. The doubt in the nurse's voice made it clear that he’d probably heard parts of the conversation.

"Has anyone else come to see him before me?"

"Only Maggie while I've been here."

"Gregory came this morning," Lizzy added matter-of-factly, but she stopped what she was doing when she realized that the two men had turned to her, looking shocked and bewildered. "Uhm… he said that… he said that Maggie had sent him to check on the new patient—I mean, it sounded kind of strange to me… but, I’m still new here, and I didn’t want to question him, I know he was in charge of this place for a couple of years. I—"

"It’s okay, Lizzy; don’t worry," Paul said, reassuringly.

Alex shook his head, but before the nurse could add anything, Paul headed back to the room where Peter was.

"Are you ready to have that normal conversation now?" Peter asked hopefully.

Ignoring him, Paul sat back on the chair. "Apart from Maggie and me, has anyone else come to see you?"

Peter was silent for a brief moment. "Yes. A man—Gregory, if I remember correctly."

Paul remained impassive, although he was having problems keeping himself calm. "What did he want?"

Before answering, Peter pulled a dubious grimace. "I'm not quite sure, honestly. He said that he used to be in charge of the colony and that he still liked to meet and check in on the new residents in person out of habit." Peter shrugged. "Then he said that I should be careful, because with what had happened in the past, not everyone felt safe with a stranger around. The truth is that he seemed like a nice guy until he warned me about you, Maggie, and that other guy, Daryl."

Paul chuckled in amazement. "What did he tell you?"

"Nothing, really, just to be cautious."

"Why didn’t you tell me before?"

"Because, unlike you, I trust you, Paul."

Paul couldn’t believe anything of this was really happening, but still, he leaned forward and when he spoke, his voice sounded hard and firm. "Then take this advice, Peter: recover quickly and leave this place."

When Paul left the room for the second time, Alex and Lizzy stood motionless in the same place.

"Did I do something wrong?" Lizzy asked, clearly worried.

Paul gave her the best of his smiles. "No, just make sure no one else bothers him anymore, okay?"

She nodded. Then Paul looked at Alex, who followed him to the exit door.

"What could Gregory want from him?" he whispered when they were outside.

"Scheming behind Maggie’s back, probably."

Alex ducked his head, fully understanding what Paul was referring to. "Do you want me to do something?"

Paul looked around, distracted. "Just make sure Gregory doesn’t approach Peter again."

"Okay…" But before Paul could get too far, Alex spoke again, "Paul, is Peter Bennett a danger to Hilltop?"

"God, I hope not."

Paul spent the rest of the day in a grim mood. All the anguish he’d felt in the morning had been replaced by a fury that escaped the limits of his own sanity. Not only did he have to deal with Peter, now he also had to make sure Gregory didn’t make the situation even more difficult than it already was.

The darkness of the night was the only thing that could be seen through the windows when Paul came out of the bathroom after taking a shower and, except for the crackle of the wood stove, the trailer was consumed by silence. Neither Daryl nor his crew had returned yet, and that only managed to increase—if that was even possible—the anxiety that had been eating him throughout the day.

He was putting on a sweatshirt when someone knocked on the front door. It took Paul only a second to get there and he didn’t bother to hide his surprise when he saw it was Dante.

"Did something happen?" he demanded.

Dante didn’t blink at the unusual tone in his voice. "Daryl and another small group stayed in the out—"

"Why?" he asked even before Dante could finish his sentence.

"We found something. A trace. People. And I can assure you that they weren’t there yesterday."

 


	7. 05

5 MONTHS AGO.

 

Something as mundane as cooking spaghetti could change Daryl's mood in the short time the water started to boil. He was fully aware that linking the memory of Alexandria—and Aaron and Eric—to one simple meal was stupid, but life was stupid anyway and he missed his friends.

It had been at least four weeks since the last time he’d visited Rick and the rest, and he was not sure when he would be able to do it again. Even Paul was traveling to Alexandria more often than him, but Paul continued to serve as Hilltop's ambassador, so his frequent presence there and at The Kingdom was predetermined.

However, as much as he missed that part of his family, Alexandria was not made for him. Never had been. The houses could be much nicer and fancier than this bland and uncomfortable trailer, but it was the simplicity and feeling of independence that made him feel at home. That, and of course the man sleeping next to him every night.

Unconsciously, Daryl glanced through one of the small windows. It had been a while since the sky had turned black, but Paul hadn’t returned yet. Although it had taken him some time, Daryl had learned not to worry too much, he trusted Paul—he tried, at least. This was not something out of the ordinary anyway, they had been working almost non-stop for weeks now to establish a new security system in the community, and there still was a lot to be done.

After the end of the war, and with Negan locked up in a cell in Alexandria, the three communities had reached a non-aggression agreement with the Sanctuary. Yet, the relations with the saviors had remained merely cordial and were carried out with extreme caution.

Since then, Daryl had officially become the supervisor of Hilltop’s new patrols. He and the recruits had spent much of the winter training inside the walls, so with spring, and its longer days and warmer temperatures, Daryl had decided it was a good time to start looking for a suitable settlement to establish a new outpost. Hilltop would build one between the colony and The Kingdom, Ezekiel’s community would do the same between them and Alexandria, and Alexandria would do it between them and Hilltop. This way they would be in a better position to control and protect the territory that now belonged to them.

The trailer’s door opened when Daryl was pouring the water from the pot into the sink. He looked over his shoulder and saw Cat moving his tail slightly. His head rested on the armrest and his eyes were fixed on the entrance, but the animal didn’t move from the couch. The hairball had to be the only living creature able to enjoy that piece of green garbage.

Daryl took a couple of plates from the cupboard and began to put the pasta on them. On the other side of the trailer, he could hear Paul murmuring as he moved from the bathroom to their bedroom. He smiled. Paul used to grumble to himself like that when something really irritated him and he thought no one else was listening to him.

Daryl expected to hear the shower running, as was usual after a long day of work. Instead, Paul appeared in the kitchen like a ghost. He had changed his clothes, but he was not accompanied by the usual fresh smell of shower gel.

"Bad day?" Daryl asked, setting the plates on the table.

Paul sat down and drummed his fingers on the table, looking for the cutlery that hadn’t been set yet. Then, he got up and grabbed a pair of forks and knives from the plastic holder next to the sink.

"Yes, a bad day," Daryl concluded when Paul didn’t respond and acted like no one else was there with him. Paul even jumped when he turned and almost bumped into him. He looked distracted, but his face relaxed as soon as their eyes met.

"Hey…" Paul said softly, then he stepped forward, narrowing the distance between them and offering Daryl a warm kiss. "I'm sorry. Yes, it's been a horrible day."

"What happened?" he asked as they sat down at the table.

"Eduardo had an accident."

"What—When?"

"This morning. We were outside supervising the construction of the new walls and discussing the place where we would be building the new watch points, when suddenly one of the posts fell over him."

Daryl raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Fuck… is he alright?" he asked and looked at Paul. The sleeves of his sweatshirt were rolled up and he could see some cuts on his arms and hands. "Shit, you're hurt."

"It's nothing," he said, making a little hand motion, as if to dismiss his concern. "We were standing next to each other and I fell to the ground with him, but Eduardo took the brunt of it. He broke his collarbone and he also hit his head hard. I've spent all day in the hospital with him. You should have listened to him, he sounded like a broken record, repeating the same thing over and over again. Harlan said it would pass, but he scared the hell out of me."

"Is he okay now?"

"Yes, he started talking normally a couple of hours ago. Alex will stay with him all night—oh, you made dinner," he said all of a sudden, staring at his plate, as if he were seeing it for the first time. "I wanted to come sooner to cook."

Daryl stared at him wordlessly, and his mouth twisted. "S’done, who cares who did it?"

"I wanted to cook for you today." There was some regret in his voice.

Confusion creased Daryl’s brow. "Paul," he said, resting a hand on his. "You sure you haven’t hit your head too?"

"I'm being serious here, I wanted to do something special—wait a second."

Paul got up and began rummaging in the back of one of the lower kitchen cabinets. After a moment, he stood up again with a bottle of wine in his hand.

"You hidin’ booze now?"

"You never know who can come into the trailer, and this is one of the best wines left from the old world."

Daryl picked up the bottle to look at it closely. The capsule was red and the label covering most of its body was yellowish with ornate drawings on the corners, and large red letters that read ‘PETRVS’.

"Remind me to bring some wineglasses next time we go out," Paul said, taking the bottle out of his hands to open it and pour some wine into the two glasses on the table.

"You really sure you didn’t hit your head?"

A smile grew slowly on Paul's lips as he took his glass and lifted it, urging him to do the same. Daryl narrowed his eyes.

After those months together, he was more than sure that he knew Paul quite well, but he still felt utterly lost during these crazy outbursts from the hippie chatterbox. Sometimes Daryl wondered if his foolishness would be contagious and if he would end up as nuts as he was.

He was not going to fool anyone, however, not even himself; he couldn’t deny enjoying the spontaneity and energy Paul radiated—a vitality that made him feel more alive than ever.

Daryl picked up the glass, following Paul’s example. "Now what?"

"Let’s toast."

Before Daryl could ask why, Paul hit his glass into Daryl’s and took a sip of wine. Daryl watched him smile broadly as he set the glass back on the table. "Happy birthday, archer."

Daryl leaned back in his chair, baffled, as if he were trying to come back from a different reality; frowning so hard that for a moment he thought he could give himself a headache.

"What the—what day’s today?"

"Well… I have to admit that I don’t know the _exact_ day, but I'm completely convinced it's this month. Am I wrong?"

Daryl watched Paul closely; he was grinning widely while he sat there not understanding what the hell he was talking about. He didn’t remember ever talking about his birthday with Paul or Paul mentioning it to him, not even asking about it. Then Daryl’s eyebrows rose with recognition. "That's why you were annoyin’ me the other day with all those questions about the horoscope and all that bullshit, right?"

Paul shrugged, suddenly looking serious, even though it was almost impossible for him to hide that stupid smile tiptoeing around his mouth.

"Probably…"

"Ya could’ve asked me directly."

"True, but seeing your reaction was worth it," he replied, smiling again. "Tell me, have I guessed right or not?"

"Ain’t gonna tell you now." Daryl tried to look unmoved, but the tingling in his stomach surprised him, and he couldn’t help but smile, too.

"Come on, tell me, how close was I?"

Daryl shook his head, finding Paul’s growing frustration quite entertaining.

"Daryl—"

"Let's eat, food’s gettin’ cold."

"I have something for you."

"What?"

"A gift. But you're right, love, let's have dinner first."

They began to eat without saying another word. Daryl, however, couldn’t take his eyes off Paul who’d managed to wake an uncontrollable curiosity in him. But Daryl was no fool. _No_. He knew that was exactly what Paul wanted, and he was not going to please the fucker.

He shook his head and pursed his lips while maintaining an indifferent attitude for at least three more bites, but—fuck it! He couldn’t contain himself any longer.

"What is it?" he asked, more urgency in his voice than he would have liked.

Paul watched him, chewing his food slowly. Daryl would’ve sworn he saw him shrug, but if he had, it had been such an imperceptible gesture that he was not sure if he had imagined it.

"Okay. Don’t tell me. I don’t care," Daryl added. "It’s probably just a box full of pins or some shit like that."

Paul's laughter shook the air. "Damn, wish I'd thought of that before," he said, lowering his head and spooning more spaghetti into his mouth. "Are you curious?"

"Don’t give a shit," he replied, but he was having a hard time pretending to be disinterested and that fucker surely knew it.

"Okay, you're lucky. I can’t wait either."

He pushed his chair back with such energy that he was about to knock it over. Then, headed for the door and left the trailer. If Tara had been there, Daryl was convinced she would have mocked the stupefied expression that was framing his face right now.

A good ten minutes passed before he could hear Paul fighting with the door. Daryl watched him as he appeared again, bringing a large box with him. Cat protested as Paul claimed some space on the couch and set the box on it. When he turned to look at him, he was still smiling broadly.

"Your gift."

Daryl swallowed the food and tried to keep the spasm of nerves under control, struggling to run the short distance between his stomach and chest where his heart had begun a steady and unceasing rhythm. He couldn’t understand why the gesture was making him feel this strange mixture of feelings that ranged from uneasiness to excitement.

Actually, he knew exactly why he was feeling this way. Daryl was not able to recall the last time someone had remembered his birthday, much less the last time someone had given him something, however insignificant it might be. His mind struggled to peer into a past that had become a haze of fuzzy and muddy memories. He had never celebrated it. No one had ever congratulated him. No one had ever cared about the birthday of a human wreck like him. Daryl himself never had cared much about it either. If at all, he used to notice days later.

He closed his eyes when he realized that the only moment that came to his mind was the one in which Paul had given him the knife made by Earl Sutton. Paul had asked the blacksmith to do it for him, so he could have something to handle the inevitable consequences of his obstinacy. It had caught him so off guard that he had only been able to mumble a brief ‘thank you’, and yet, he knew that he hadn’t needed to embellish his answer. The smile he had seen on Paul's lips had been enough for Daryl to see that he’d not expected anything else from him. He was surprised that even then, when they still had pretended to hate each other, they had been able to communicate without actually saying anything.

Daryl grumbled under his breath, coming back to the present when he remembered that he no longer had the knife. He had lost it, not one, but two damn times.

He cleared his throat and moved his eyes from the box to Paul, who had been watching him intently.

"We can finish dinner first, if you like," he said softly.

Daryl shook his head, got up from the table and walked quietly toward the couch. Cat had his attention on them, his amber eyes watching with a disdainful air as Daryl placed a hand on the box, but quickly removed it away again. "There's nothin’ alive in there, right?"

The relaxed glow returned to Paul's eyes as he laughed. "No, but be careful anyway."

Daryl opened the box slowly; that stupid feeling of anticipation doing odd things to his stomach. He looked inside once it was open, but he only saw piles of wrinkled paper hiding whatever was there. Daryl glanced at Paul and tried to ignore his contagious smile—he almost failed.

"Come on, man! You’re making me nervous," Paul said.

A chuckle escaped his lips before Daryl could stop it, then he picked up a handful of paper and tossed it aside. His throat closed completely when he finally saw what was inside. Daryl looked at Paul and then back at the box.

"Where—"

"Doesn’t matter."

But it did matter. Of course it did, he thought, unable to take his eyes off the brand new, immaculate crossbow. After so long, finding weapons had been a virtually impossible and useless task. So Daryl couldn’t imagine what Paul had had to do and which places he would have had to go and explore to find not a simple gun or a rifle but a damn crossbow—and he had done it for him.

Daryl pulled the weapon out of the box and held it firmly. He couldn’t believe how much he had missed feeling something like this in his hands, its weight and the sensation of the cold steel on his skin. Daryl placed it properly against his shoulder and pointed it at the couch. Cat howled in protest and scurried away, making them laugh.

"You scared the poor thing," Paul said.

"He hates us anyway."

"He doesn’t hate us, he just sees us as his servants. Do you like it?"

"It’s alright," he replied, pretending to sound bored.

Paul didn’t reply but Daryl could feel his eyes on him. When he turned to look at him, Paul barely blinked, waiting patiently for Daryl to finally throw that stupid mask away.

"You idiot. I love you," he snorted, putting an arm around Paul's shoulders and pulling him until their bodies pressed against each other and their lips met in a sweet kiss.

"Are you going to tell me when your birthday is now?" Paul asked, their lips brushing as he spoke.

"No."

"Can I tell you when mine is?"

Daryl chuckled. "No," he answered in a low voice, silencing Paul with another kiss.

 

* * *

 

TODAY.

 

Daryl crouched, placing the crossbow against his hip as he examined the tracks visible among the damp fallen leaves. They couldn’t have been there for a long time and they drew a straight path going deep into the forest surrounding them.

They had been following this damn trail for five days and it seemed to follow no logic or pattern, as if those who were prowling among the trees were moving around without a fixed course. It was either that, or someone making fun of them, and Daryl was beginning to exhaust all the reserves of his already diminished patience.

During those days, he had set up a series of shifts, sending some of his men to Hilltop to report on the progress they were making. Meanwhile, he had stayed with the rest of the group at the outpost, planning routes and tactics to follow by the time the sun came out again.

The outpost used to be an old ranger station hidden in the thicket, but it was close enough to the road to watch over it. During the last months of work they had been able to build a fence around it and provide everything necessary for those who had to spend a long period of time there: beds, clothes, food, weapons, and other supplies. Daryl was satisfied with what they had achieved and would have liked both Maggie and Paul to have come to see it. Maggie was too busy with Hershel and the management of Hilltop, though, and Paul was not only taking care of the security of the colony, but also offering himself for any other job he could lend a hand with.

However, it was the fact that Paul was eleven miles away, alone, dealing with that bastard called Peter Bennett, what was setting him on edge. He felt nauseous every time he thought about it and whenever he realized how much time and resources they were wasting while trying to find whoever was roaming the woods. Time he could have spent with Paul instead, helping him to bear the memories of a dark and painful past no one else seemed to be aware of.

Paul would never admit to it, he would say he was fine with the sole purpose of not worrying him, but Daryl knew him better, he didn’t need Paul to confess it out loud for him to see the anxiety reflected in his blue eyes.

Taking a deep breath, Daryl thought of the likelihood that the people they were following were related to this Bennett fucker. He dismissed the thought as fast as it crossed his mind, though. Not that it was impossible—on the contrary—but he didn’t want to think that Paul and Tara could have been so careless as to let anyone follow them.

A whistle to his left brought Daryl back to the present, to the forest and the tracks he was trying to study. Mandy crouched to his left, a few feet from where he was. The woman made a gesture with her head and Daryl came over to see what had caught her eye.

More footprints. These ones perfectly visible in the mud that had formed filled with the rain that had fallen during the night. "They're fresh," Mandy said, pointing to the rest of the footprints in front of them.

Daryl watched closely. He knew they couldn’t be far from them, which meant that they finally had a great opportunity to hunt them down.

He looked around and saw the rest of his team, their attention on him as they waited patiently for orders. Daryl gestured to one group to follow the trail bordering the area on the left and the other to do the same on the right. Meanwhile, he, Mandy, Marcus, and Dante would follow the trail straight through.

Prepared with their weapons, they began to move stealthily through the undergrowth. All their senses were ready for whatever sound or shadow disturbed the stillness following them as another member of the group.

They walked. They walked a lot, and after nearly half an hour of getting into the woods, Daryl took a deep breath. They hadn’t found anything, they hadn’t even crossed paths with walkers and the tracks had begun to dissipate in the foliage. But Daryl was not intending to give up. Not today. He didn’t care how, but this day was not going to end until he found them, even if it meant spending the whole night out there.

They continued for about a mile more until Marcus stopped short with one arm raised. Daryl approached him quickly. The young man had discovered a car, a large SUV, partially hidden next to an old path. Daryl clung tightly to the steel of his crossbow and made sure the others did the same with their own weapons.

They waited for a reasonable amount of time and when they heard nothing more than their own breaths, they approached the vehicle carefully. It didn’t look abandoned and the doors were closed. Mandy tried to peer through the windows, but most of them were tinted and the inside could barely be seen.

The hair on the back of Daryl’s neck rose when he heard a creak not far from them. He looked at his group—they had heard it, too. They stepped back slowly, measuring each of their movements, but the air became thick and unbreathable even before they could turn around.

"Put your weapons down," a deep voice urged behind them. "Do it carefully, show your hands. Then move away from the car, slowly."

The others were not sure at first, but Daryl urged them to obey.

Carefully, Daryl began to bend down to place the crossbow on the ground, making sure the others did exactly the same. His movements were slow, but he could turn around enough to glance at their assailants. For a moment he held his breath. Then he let it out with a loud snarl as he rose again quickly with the crossbow still in his hands.

"You sons of bitches," he snapped, watching these men and women and recognizing not only their gear, but also some of their faces. "You’re from The Kingdom."

Daryl noticed that Mandy, Marcus, and Dante immediately turned around, while Ezekiel's men lowered their weapons slightly.

"Fuck… you're from Hilltop."

"Course we're from Hilltop, asshole! This is our territory!"

"Your territory? This place belongs to everyone," the man, who seemed to be the leader, answered. Daryl remembered his face, but not his name. He was a tall, hunky man, about fifty or so years old. White, soft features that barely contrasted with his gray hair.

Daryl watched the rest, three more men, two of them were in their forties and the other man was younger, like most of the three women who completed the group. All were dressed in the warrior gear of The Kingdom and were armed with pistols and rifles.

"This is our protection zone," Mandy said.

"Well, I'm afraid you weren’t protecting it very well, honey," the man standing right behind the group leader said. He was the tallest of them all, with attractive features on light-brown skin; his full lips and penetrating black eyes making him look more fitting to adorn the cover of a magazine rather than standing amongst soldiers.

"Call her _honey_ again, and you'll end up with an extra hole in your ass, fucker," Marcus snapped and without a second thought, he aimed his rifle at them.

Instinctively, everyone did the same. The sound of guns being cocked was the only thing that could be heard before everything stopped moving around them. The birds no longer sang and the leaves weren’t falling anymore. The seconds passed with a cruel and exasperating slowness while men and women studied each other with their weapons ready to fire into air that became more and more rarefied.

"Lower your weapons," Daryl urged.

"I suggest you to do the same," the leader rebuffed.

"How about calming down before someone gets nervous and we all end up doing an Irish tap dance, huh?" Black Eyes said. Though none of them moved.

"Freddy, tell them to lower their weapons," Dante said, speaking to the leader of the group.

"We all need to calm down, D," Freddy replied.

"Come on, guys, this situation is completely ridiculous. We're friends, we work together," Mandy added.

Daryl, however, gripped the crossbow so hard that his knuckles turned white. He couldn’t believe they had been lost in the woods for almost a week because of this bunch of idiots. Five days totally wasted. He had to close his eyes for a second to appease the frustration that threatened to make him lose his temper completely.

"The hell were you doin’ here?" he asked then, his voice so deep it vibrated in his throat.

"Training," Freddy replied.

"Training? And you couldn’t fuckin’ train in your own damn area? We coulda blown your brains out, assholes."

"I'm sorry, but that seemed quite unlikely," Black Eyes said in an amused tone.

Daryl moved his lips with an answer burning on his tongue like a sharp knife, but there was a sound, something out of his sight that also caught the attention of the younger members of Ezekiel's group. They moved quickly, but not enough to act before the rest of the guys from Hilltop’s group appeared there, as if part of a magic trick, and surrounded them with their guns drawn.

"Who's in charge now, bud?" Tyler snapped.

"Okay, listen to me all. Calm down!" Freddy urged, raising his voice.

"Yes, I don’t think we need to feed our egos any more—this is getting out of hand," one of the girls from The Kingdom said.

"Well, I actually find it quite entertaining," Black Eyes said.

"Tom," Freddy warned. "Guys… lower your guns. Now."

After a brief moment, they all began to raise their arms, showing their hands in a forced conciliatory gesture. All but Daryl and Black Eyes, who continued aiming at each other’s heads in a silent dispute only the two of them seemed to be aware of.

"What do you think you're going to do with that crossbow, buddy?"

"Tom…" Freddy turned to look at him but Black Eyes didn’t flinch.

"You'd end up with an arrow between yer eyebrows even before you could think about pullin’ the trigger."

"Daryl," Mandy stepped in front of him.

"Back off," he snarled hoarsely, but the woman didn’t move. Behind her, however, Black Eyes finally raised his rifle as the others had done.

"It's okay," he said. "I have no intention of ending up as a sieve today, let alone by friendly fire. Besides, I'm sure I’m not the only one starving."

 

***

 

"You’ll have to return everything that comes out of the pantry," Mandy said as she set down a pitcher of beer.

After making sure that there was no other trace in the forest and sending Dante to Hilltop to report what had happened, all the men and women—eighteen in all—crowded in the ranger station’s old open living room to share what was intended to be a friendly dinner.

To the wooden table that was already there, they had added two more folding tables that they kept in the storehouse. It had been Mandy's idea to keep some extra tables and chairs, and although Daryl hadn’t understood the need at the time, he now recognized that it hadn’t been a bad decision.

"This is a good place," Freddy commented, chewing on his steak and looking around. "Good job."

"We found it almost by chance," Marcus said. "We didn’t expect to come this far and it was quite hidden, but the attic has a good view on the road. So don’t worry, you all can sleep like babies, your sovereign butts are well protected here."

"I hope you treat your enemies at least as badly as you treat your friends," muttered one of the women who had said her name was Vanessa.

"You shouldn’t have been here anyway," Tyler protested.

"And I don’t think you'll get very far if you leave a trace like the one we found out there," Marcus added. "Even a child could have followed that trail."

"Really? Because it took you five days to hunt us down, and we weren’t even trying to hide. I don’t know what that says about you and how safe I feel my _sovereign_ ass will be in your hands," Tom said, sitting right in front of Daryl.

"Be more careful the next time you come through these woods, man, because I may not think twice before I pull the trigger," Marcus snapped at his side.

"Don’t doubt that you’d try it, _however_ , the question is…" he said, leaning toward Marcus, "would you be able to hit the target? That's my real concern, my friend."

"Let’s go out there and I’ll show you."

"Boys…"

"You sure you want to make a fool out of yourself in front of your people?"

Marcus sprang to his feet. "Let's go out!"

"Boys!"

"Can you shut the fuck up!" Daryl finally said.

"Okay, okay," Tom said, moving his hands. "Let’s have a peaceful party, huh? Fuck’s sake, are you all a bit tense, or is it just me?"

" _He's_ just pissed off because he's had to sleep here all week instead of being at Hilltop, banging his _boyfriend_ ," Tyler snapped.

Daryl hit the table with his fist—the sudden blow startling everyone, but a warm hand on his wrist stopped the words that were about to erupt from his mouth like the bullets of a heavy weapon.

"Tyler, can you stop being a fucking asshole? If not for us, at least do yourself the favor," Mandy said coldly.

Silence seized the air as easily as the cold could paralyze the senses. There were some uncomfortable throat clearings and the sound of the cutlery on the plates was the only thing heard for a long moment until Tom's voice slipped like a snake amid all the tension.

"What I said before—I meant it," he said; his sarcastic tone had disappeared and there were even a few notes of concern in his voice. "You seem extraordinarily stressed. We came to these woods because we thought it would be good for our men to know what it means to be outside the walls and there's nothing like this close to The Kingdom. Coming unannounced has been a bad decision, I agree, but how long has it been since we've seen a stranger roaming the area?"

The question was genuine; in fact, Tom paused, waiting for someone to answer. Freddy did, "Since the war."

Tom nodded and continued talking, "However, judging by your reaction, I deduce that you weren’t expecting to find friends when you discovered our trails."

"You didn’t seem to be preparing us a surprise party either," Mandy said.

"We were being cautious, you were being aggressive. Why?"

All eyes suddenly turned to Daryl, though it was Marcus who intervened, "We have a small problem at Hilltop—"

"There's no need to talk ‘bout that," Daryl interrupted.

"Well, I think they should know. This could affect them as well if they come."

"Who? What's going on?" Freddy asked quickly.

Daryl lifted his chin to meet Marcus's eyes. He was sitting in front of Mandy, next to Tom, and he seemed to be waiting for his approval to continue talking. He already had opened his big mouth anyway, so it didn’t matter anymore.

Daryl shrugged.

"Jesus and Tara came back six days ago, after almost two weeks out, and they didn’t return alone. On the way back, they met a man, he was hurt, so they decided to bring him to Hilltop."

"What’s the problem with that?" Tom asked.

"He was not alone when they found him, the others died, though. But he has a camp—"

"Where?"

Marcus sighed impatiently at the interruptions. "Between Atlantic City and Philadelphia."

"Well, that's pretty far," Freddy said.

"Not that much," Daryl grumbled.

"Hilltop has given him shelter," Marcus continued, "but his people don’t know that, so we don’t know what to expect from them if they decide to come after him."

"Do they know he's here?" Tom turned in his seat to get a better look at Marcus.

"Jesus assured us that no one followed them, but when we informed him of the trail we’d found, he became quite nervous. He only told us to intensify the surveillance, though—nothing else." Marcus returned his eyes to Daryl, a look that confirmed the knowledge that there was something else about Peter Bennett that was not being said.

"What?" Daryl snapped, raising his tone without being aware of it. "I've been here five fuckin’ days, know as much as you do."

Marcus shook his head but said nothing else. Beside him, Daryl watched Tom darting his gaze between them. All the attention in the room was focused on that point of the table, and the tension fluttered around like a mocking elf, depraving the air until it was suffocating.

"Are you implying that Paul is hiding something?" Tom asked Marcus.

Something stirred in Daryl's stomach when Tom called him Paul, and his eyes clawed at the man sitting in front of him, studying him almost without wanting to.

There were not many who referred to Paul by his real name, not even Tara did, and Daryl was convinced that Paul had a much closer relationship with her than he could have with this man. Daryl didn’t think he had ever seen him, or if he had, he didn’t remember. It was true that it was Paul who had friends at The Kingdom; Daryl only knew Ezekiel and some of the emissaries the king used to send from time to time to Hilltop. Of course Paul would know Tom, that chatterbox knew a lot of people after all. For some reason, though, this man was making him feel uncomfortable, and the fact that they were starting to question Paul’s honesty didn't make the situation any less frustrating.

Yet, he didn’t take his eyes off Tom in the endless seconds that his brain had gone out of control. If Tom was aware of it, he didn’t bother to return the gaze. He kept his attention on Marcus, waiting for a response.

"I trust Jesus," Marcus clarified. "But no one sitting at this table who has gone to Hilltop these days can deny that he’s been acting very strangely."

"Maybe, if ya’ll stopped waiting for him to solve all the damn problems Hilltop has, he could relax and act like a normal person for once in his fuckin’ life!"

Daryl got up so fast that the table wiggled with the sudden and unexpected movement, shaking all the glasses and platters. His chest rose with effort, trying to catch the air that had left his lungs at the same speed with which he had risen. He covered his face with both hands, rubbing his eyes angrily. He knew everyone was staring at him and he didn’t give two fucks about it. Wasn’t it true? Of course it was. They all expected Paul to behave like the messiah he was nicknamed after, and no one seemed to care to understand that Paul was also just a human being that laughed, cried, and bled like everyone else. And being away from him, knowing what he might be suffering, only increased Daryl’s impulse to tell all these people to go fuck themselves.

Only a grunting sound escaped his throat, though. Then he turned to head for the door, but before he went too far he looked back to them.

"Be sure to take note of all the shit they eat and drink tonight," he said to Mandy.

 

***

 

The night was cold, much more than he remembered from previous days. Perhaps it was the chill that still ran down his spine and that had begun to chase him since he’d risen from the table. He was not sure, and he didn’t care. He only wanted some time for himself and watching the smoke of his cigarette fade into the night air was the closest thing to a moment of tranquility that he knew he would find here.

Apart from the bare branches moving in the ethereal wind and the drowned echoes from inside the house, it was silent. For a moment he felt at peace. It was a very brief moment, though. His right knee jerked in a nervous swinging that neither his brain seemed capable of taming, nor did he have the strength to ask his body to stop reacting against his own will. His hand trembled every time he put the cigarette in his mouth. Whether it was the cold or the impatience was not clear.

He wanted to go back to Hilltop as soon as possible. He needed to see Paul, to see with his own eyes that he was okay. Maybe he would ask him to leave the colony for a few days; yield to that request Paul had made to him six days ago, and which Daryl had rejected without even thinking about it for a mere second.

Six days.

_Hell_ , he was sure it was even a new month already. November 1st or 2nd. Who knew? But it was as good a time as any other to take the horses and get away from Hilltop—just the two of them. Be selfish for fucking once.

The wood creaked to his left, he hadn’t heard the door open, but Tom was there. His tall silhouette was timidly drawn under the shade of the porch and the soft stream of light coming from inside the house.

Daryl nearly complained loudly as the man opened a camping chair and sat down next to him, but instead he gave his cigarette another puff.

"I hope you don’t mind some company. Inside, the atmosphere is still tense and right now the only thing I want is to smoke and something to drink."

A bottle of beer appeared in front of his nose a second later. Daryl looked at it, narrowing his eyes. Then he turned to Tom.

"I come in peace," he said serenely, "and I promise to bring more beer."

Daryl let out the smoke accompanied by an irritated breath. Then he turned his head and focused again on the dark, invisible landscape in front of them. Beside him, Tom put the beer he had offered him on the ground. He also heard him move, first opening his own beer and then rummaging in the pockets of the black jacket he wore. Daryl didn’t turn to look at him; as far as he was concerned he was still alone. Even so, his mind was unable to get away from the man sitting next to him because he didn’t stop fucking moving. Daryl tried to distract himself with a new intense drag, but his impatience was fading away at the same pace the cigarette consumed itself between his fingers.

"The fuck are you doin’, man," Daryl snapped just seconds later.

"I think I lost my lighter," Tom replied, touching his clothes. Between his lips he held something that Daryl recognized immediately, and before he could stop it, his mind traveled to that night at The Kingdom, more than a year ago, he and Paul alone in one of the school towers, smoking weed like two stupid teenagers.

A curse at his side erased the memory with the speed of lightning. Daryl muttered under his breath and pulled a lighter from one of the pockets of his jacket. Then he stretched his arm without bothering to look at the other man.

"Very kind." The sarcasm in Tom's voice was hard to ignore, but Daryl couldn’t care less what this unwelcome pain in the ass stranger thought of him.

A few minutes passed without either of them saying anything. Rain was falling now, jangling the tiles over their heads. The humidity made the cold much more noticeable. Daryl felt his body growing numb, even holding the cigarette was becoming difficult.

"Do you want to try it?" Tom asked suddenly, offering him what he was smoking. "I assure you, you'll warm up right away." Daryl just looked at him. "Seriously, it's good. There's a guy at The Kingdom—"

"I don’t give a shit."

"Damn, are you always in this mood, buddy?"

"Ain’t your fuckin’ buddy, and you’re to blame for my mood."

Tom raised his hands in the air. "Man, I'm sorry if we scared you, like I said, it was not our intention—we didn’t know you had problems at Hilltop."

"You could’ve asked."

"You're right, next time I'll give you a call."

"You could’ve sent someone, asshole."

"That’s true. Still, I think you need to relax, you—"

"Fuck you, I was doin’ just fine ‘til you came here."

Tom didn’t answer. If Daryl's words had bothered him, he didn’t show it either. He simply extinguished the joint and put it inside of one of his pockets. Daryl waited for him to get up and leave him alone, but instead he leaned back in his chair, stretching his long legs in front of him. He grabbed the beer he had brought for himself and then tilted his head back, closing his eyes. He was a handsome man, looking almost harmless right now, but he was irritating Daryl more than he thought was possible, even though he truly didn’t understand why.

Daryl finished his cigarette and wondered if it was time to get up and go to bed. Resting would do him good, and if he could succumb to sleep, perhaps by the time he woke up, the sun would have already risen again.

"Is Paul okay?" Tom's voice invaded the quiet night. The man had opened his eyes and was sipping his beer calmly.

"What?"

"You are Daryl Dixon, right? There are not many _Daryls_ among our communities, and it’s not a secret that you and Paul live together. What the boy said earlier, Marcus, has left me worried. Paul is not a man to be easily frightened."

"The hell you know?"

"We've known each other for a long time."

"Really? ‘Cause it's the first time I've heard of you."

Tom's reply filled his ears in the form of a whistle. "Fucking hell, man, you’ve got some serious issues. You know? I’ve been trying to think hard for the last couple of hours… but the only conclusion I could come to at this point is that you have to be _really_ good in bed, otherwise I don’t get it."

Daryl had turned abruptly in his chair even before Tom had finished speaking. "The fuck are you talkin’ about?"

Daryl could almost feel the patience separating from him and scratching his skin as it left his body. Tom, however, was indifferent to his words as he took another sip of his beer.

"If there's one thing I've always admired about Paul, it’s his ability to see beyond the surface of people. His patience is admirable," he said exasperatingly calm, then turned to look at Daryl. "I can’t imagine how much he had to dig in there, man." He pointed to his head with the bottle.

"You have no fuckin’ idea what you’re talkin’ about," Daryl said gravely, watching Tom get up and head for the door. "You don’t know me."

"You're right," Tom said, turning to him, one hand on the doorknob, "but not that you’re making it easy, _buddy_ —don’t forget the beer, it would be a waste to leave it there."

When the door closed, silence fell like a guillotine in an empty room. The rain was no longer heard, the trees didn’t move, the nocturnal animals were silent. It had been silence that Daryl had come looking for, but now it felt like a bomb vibrating in his ears.

He picked up the bottle on the floor beside him and looked at it, remembering the night in Barrington House’s viewpoint, when he and Paul had drunk until Paul had been barely able to walk down the stairs.

He smiled.

It was a sad smile, though. They had talked about so many things—Daryl had _done_ so many things. He had punched him, marked his face when Paul had only been trying to help him at a difficult time, and yet, Paul had forgiven him. The words had hurt, probably more than the aggressive physical contact had, but Paul had forgiven him. Paul also had forced him to open his eyes, and when Daryl had obeyed, he finally had been able to see what was in front of him—those blue eyes that had looked at him like no one had ever done before, piercing that stubborn shield covering him.

Dig. Yes.

Paul had dug to the depths of his soul, and now he couldn’t help wondering if he really deserved someone like him by his side. After all, what could he give him if now, when Paul needed him most, he was eleven miles away—so close and yet so far. What could Daryl possibly give him if he had refused to follow him when Paul had begged him to? Paul was not easily frightened, Tom had said, and it was true. But Paul was anxious now and Daryl wasn’t there for him; he had turned a blind eye, asking him to be brave enough to get into the den of a damn bear, and Paul had done it without thinking twice.

Who the fuck asks someone to do something like that?

Paul was a strong man who would try to prove that he was brave, even when he was scared, and he didn’t deserve to be pressured into doing that—just as he, Daryl Dixon, didn’t deserve someone like Paul.  He knew he didn’t.

He looked up, his fingers trembling as he held the bottle in his hands. The silence was still there. Then he realized that the rain had stopped singing because the drops had become weak snowflakes dancing in the air. He was cold, and yet he knew that the chill that shook his body had nothing to do with the icy night embracing him. It was something else entirely, something deeper. He was not quite sure what it was, but he was certain he was afraid of it.


	8. 06

2 MONTHS AGO.

 

The impact to the ground was even harder than the other ten times. He wasn’t actually keeping track, but it must have been enough to hurt anyone's pride.

Daryl clenched his teeth in an attempt to restrain the pained moan struggling to force its way up his throat, but he didn’t want to give the bastard the satisfaction. _Damn him._

He could hear Paul laugh behind him while he writhed through the dry leaves and tried to catch his breath, tasting the dust that hovered around him.

"C’mon, archer!"

Daryl grunted, and it was an angry sound. He was getting too old for this bullshit, he thought as he rolled to the side with effort, then placed his palms on the ground and lifted his head to take a look at Paul. Sweat fell off the tip of Daryl’s nose, his hair and clothes were soaked and sticking to his skin, making him feel even hotter than he already was. Yet again he had to wonder why the hell he had agreed to do this, although he was not sure if the warmth that heated his muscles was because of the blazing sun, shining over their heads, or only a consequence of the humiliation that fed the frustration raging in his veins.

"You're enjoyin’ this a bit too much, ain’t you?" he asked gravely.

Paul had his hands on his hips, waiting patiently, as if none of this had been an effort for him.

"This is not about me, this is about you, Daryl. We’re working on controlling your anger."

"Well, you’re doin’ a crap job."

"That's it. You just need to let go of all the rage you have in there. C’mon, archer, attack!"

Paul didn’t have to say anything else. Daryl got up as fast as he could and ran towards him in an attempt to knock him down, but his back hit the ground again the next second. This time the grunt of pain ran through his teeth before he could stop it.

He barely had time to recover when a shadow blocked the blinding sun. Daryl blinked repeatedly until Paul's silhouette took shape as he leaned down a little and offered him a hand to help him get up.

"Fuck you," Daryl snapped.

Paul laughed again—the fucking crazy little man. This was how he was, always smiling as if everything was just a game, and he didn't stop laughing while he crouched until their bodies brushed lightly.

"This is your problem, Daryl, you act without thinking. You let your anger control you. You need to study your opponent, but above all, you need to learn to decide if the situation is worth the effort or not. Next time, I'll show you some moves. C’mon," he said, offering him a hand again. "Let's go back to Hilltop, it’s getting—"

There was a sound not far from them—shrubs and branches were shaking rapidly. Paul got up quickly, drawing one of his knives. Daryl followed, groaning between breaths, but standing beside him. The two of them waited, listening carefully to the intermittent creaking sound.

Several endless seconds passed before the noise became much more clear. Both men prepared to attack instinctively, even though it was evident that it was not a walker, it moved too fast. _An animal_ , Daryl assumed, but he barely had time to complain for not having brought the crossbow with him—like a spark, a rabbit came out from behind a bush and crossed the clearing. The two men tried to move almost as fast as the animal did, but before they could catch it, the rabbit had already disappeared into the undergrowth.

"Oh, damn!" Paul murmured.

"Shit! It looked scared."

"A walker, probably."

Daryl hissed in exasperation. "Fucking—I _knew_ I should’ve brought the crossbow. Why do I keep listenin’ to you? _‘Take only the essentials, take only the essentials’_ ," Daryl protested in a sharper tone than usual. "See? We could’ve had rabbit for dinner—but _no_! You dragged me out here for what, exactly? Next time, _I'll_ make the plans, we'll go huntin’, and I'll show you how. _That’s_ useful. Fighting? I already know how to fight, maybe not in a fancy way," he said waving his hands exaggeratedly, which drew an amused smile to Paul’s face, "but I don’t need that to punch someone in the fuckin’ face. Guts! That’s what’s needed. Martial arts? Fuck that shit."

This time, Paul laughed loudly. "I know you're strong, Daryl, but what I'm trying to teach you here is to use your brain. _Think_ , remember? You haven’t learned anything at all."

"Fuck you, Monroe. I'd kick your ass right now."

"Try it."

Paul shook his head, keeping a smug smile on his lips as he placed the knife back in its holster—perfectly distracted by the absurdity of the situation.

Think? Daryl did not.

In only a few quick steps he shortened the distance between them and jumped on Paul, sending them both to the ground. They hit the dry ground harder than Daryl had expected, but at last he’d achieved his goal. Think? Bullshit!

"Some advice for you, smartass," he said hoarsely, speaking into Paul’s ear. "Never lose sight of your opponent."

With a new wave of satisfaction running through his body, Daryl rose from the ground. A smile crossed his face now, and he shook the dust off his dirty and sweaty clothes victoriously. However, his eyes didn’t move away from Paul who was still lying among the leaves with his long hair all over his face. Daryl watched him for a while, but it only had taken him a few seconds to realize that something was wrong.

Paul didn’t move.

The smile disappeared from his mouth and a shiver shook his body. A shudder that roared down his spine, freezing the scorching heat he’d felt until that very moment.

"Paul?"

There was no answer.

Daryl took a dubious step forward. "Paul?" he repeated, his voice trembling.

Nothing.

Daryl's heart was beating so hard against his chest that he was sure that one of those blows could send him to the ground. Daryl moved quickly, throwing himself on his knees beside Paul’s inert body. "Paul? Paul!"

He tried to move him, brush his hair away from his face so he could see him, but time stopped in a mere fraction of a second. One hand gripped his wrist, another his neck, and suddenly he was feeling the rough ground scratching his back, the weight of a body above him, and the cold touch of a sharp blade pressing against his neck.

His _own_ fucking knife.

Daryl tried to regain control of his brain, but he felt something tickling his cheeks. _His hair_. The hair of that damn hippie chatterbox—that traitorous fucking man. Their faces were separated by a single breath, a breath that Daryl could feel on his skin and that had managed to melt the ice of the fear that had invaded him shortly before. Those eyes, usually bright, were now watching him with a dark desire.

"Some advice for you, archer," Paul said, his voice deeper than usual. "Never trust your opponent."

Only an instant later, he stopped feeling the blade of the knife against his skin, but Paul didn’t move away. They were so close that their noses brushed with the agitated dance of their breaths. Nothing seemed to move around them, but they wouldn’t be alone for long; Daryl could feel it in the whistle of the warm air that had become hoarse and brittle.

"Looks like we have company," Paul said in a whisper, sitting up straight on Daryl's lap. He handed him the knife back just as the walker appeared in the clearing.

Paul got up immediately, drawing one of his own knives again. Daryl moved, too, kneeling on the ground as he watched Paul.

_Think,_ he had told him. _Think before acting_.

There was nothing to think about, though.

Daryl grabbed the knife by the blade and with a quick, precise movement, he threw it through the air. A moment later, there was the sound of bones, flesh, and a muffled groan as the walker fell on his back with a thud; knife buried in his forehead.

Paul had stepped aside in surprise, his eyes wide.

"You're welcome," Daryl said, standing up before Paul could protest.

 

***

 

It was dusk when they returned to Hilltop, the sky had turned a powerful orange that bathed everything in the color of fire. Daryl still sweated as he removed his soaked shirt and watched the scratches and small bruises that were forming on his tanned skin.

"I’ll get revenge," he said, sitting on the bed. Paul was standing beside him.

"It's your own fault."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes. If you’d stopped to think for a single second, you would’ve blocked some of those blows," he said calmly. "You lose control and patience too easily, Daryl, and when that happens, your only instinct is to attack, attack, attack."

"Whatever."

But he knew that Paul was right. He wasn’t the best at having control over himself sometimes; he had to learn to distance himself, body and mind, from possible threats. He also knew that thinking about it now, sitting on a bed, was easier than putting it into practice.

He dropped his shirt and watched Paul take off his. Daryl’s eyes traveled over his bare torso until they landed on the massive bruise on his left side. He imagined that it was because of the fall when he’d tackled him, and now he couldn’t help feeling bad about it.

_Think, of course._ But at that moment, he’d only thought about his wish to see that damned man bite the dust.

He took a deep breath and stretched an arm out, stroking the reddened skin with his fingertips. He could feel the immediate reaction of Paul's body to his touch. He turned slightly, Daryl lifted his head and their eyes met.

"You're an animal sometimes," Paul said, though there was no resentment in his words.

Daryl didn’t answer. He leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss on the dark purple mark. Paul's skin was damp because of the heat and exercise, and his scent was a mixture of the salty smell of sweat and a whiff of soap that still clung to him. Paul's fingers tangled in his hair.

"I can be kind too," Daryl said then, cocking his head to look back at him.

Paul smiled, emphasizing the warm blush on his cheeks. "I know you can be, I wish you would show it more often, though," he said softly, stroking Daryl’s face. Then he moved to place himself between Daryl's legs. "There are people out there who are afraid of you, you know that, right? If they only knew what’s really hiding in here..." He put a hand on Daryl's chest; his heart beating hard against Paul's palm.

"Don’t care what they think." Daryl rested his hands on Paul's lower back and pulled him close enough so that he just had to lean slightly to kiss his stomach. When his lips inevitably brushed Paul’s scars, he couldn’t stop the images from appearing in his head. Every time he saw them, every time he touched or felt them against his skin, they involuntarily reminded him of the terror of a war that had taken place a year ago.

He closed his eyes. He didn’t want to think about that, he didn’t want to go back. Negan was locked up in a cell and they were here. He was happy. They both were. Although, sometimes he wanted to seal that damn hippie chatterbox’s mouth with tape and not let him talk for at least a week.

He was happy. Yes, he was, and he was also allowing himself to feel things he’d never felt before, enjoy things he’d never enjoyed before, and do things he’d never done before.

He felt a new surge of heat running through his body. A desire he had never felt for anyone before and he was still having trouble getting used to. Yet, he couldn’t look away from those blue eyes that watched him with the same passion.

Daryl lowered his hands until they settled on Paul's ass, he squeezed it and Paul chuckled. Then he let his hands move all the way down the back of Paul’s thighs and knees. He stopped there, pulling one leg first, then the other, until Paul was straddling his lap.

"Shower can wait, right?" Daryl's throat was so dry that he had to strain his voice to let it slip through.

There was no response from Paul. Not with words, anyway. He captured Daryl's lips in a fiery kiss that sent them both against the mattress.

That was it. This was his life now. Sometimes he wondered, with a heavy pressure on his chest, if all this would be no more than a dream he would sooner or later have to wake up from—finding himself alone again, lost in the middle of the woods, like long ago.

But he wasn’t in the woods—he was at Hilltop, in this trailer and in this bed. He was with Paul. Daryl didn’t want to be with anyone else, and he let himself get carried away by that kiss that seemed to last for hours even if only minutes had passed. His body's temperature increased until it became unbearable, and he felt his pants tighten as their bodies brushed, feeling Paul’s excitement against his own.

Paul left his lips and kissed his cheek, and jaw, and neck. There was a hoarse groan and—

Then it was over.

Something was touching Daryl, something soft and warm tapping his forehead.

A meow.

Daryl jerked his head back to meet Cat's amber eyes.

"You’ve got to be kiddin’ me," Daryl grunted.

The cat meowed again and Paul began to laugh against his neck.

"Get out, you stupid cat, we're busy here."

"You know what he's saying, right?" Paul said, sitting up. Daryl shook his head, he didn’t want to hear it, but neither could he speak because the pressure of Paul's body against his crotch caused a deaf moan that stifled his throat. "Stop smooching and feed me."

Daryl cursed under his breath. "Where are you goin’?" he protested when Paul got out of bed and walked toward the door.

"Will take a shower. You feed your cat!"

" _My_ cat? Damn hairball!" he protested, then stood up. "Hey, don’t get in the shower without me!"

 

 

* * *

 

TODAY.

 

He knew something was wrong. The feeling assaulted him the moment he set one foot in the trailer. There was a palpable coldness, as if the place had been empty for hours. Daryl looked from side to side; there was no trace of Paul or Cat. The cat used to go in and out whenever he felt like it, but he always managed to snuggle up in his favorite place—the horrible green couch—and next to the woodstove that was off now around this time of the day.

It was late and cold. Outside, the thick gray clouds let the darkness fall over Hilltop even before sunset, and although it was not snowing now, snowflakes had been falling intermittently during most of the day.

Daryl’s brow furrowed as he heard a series of scratches on the door, and as soon as he opened it, Cat ran in and jumped up the couch. He watched the animal while letting it sink in that Paul probably hadn’t been here all day. He didn’t like the feeling that settled in his stomach, but he tried not to think too much about it. He had been away for six days and the only thing he knew about Hilltop’s business was what his men had reported. It probably didn’t mean anything, Paul was most likely working, as usual.

He went to the bedroom to remove his clothes, but instead, he just stood still as his mind froze for a moment. Then, he stepped out of the tiny bedroom and headed to the kitchen. The plans that Norton had given them seven days ago were still on the table. Mugs were in the sink and the cut tomatoes were still on the counter, looking all dried up. That night, they hadn’t eaten dinner, even after Paul had finally opened up to him. Now, there was a strange smell. It was as if Paul hadn’t been in here since the last time they had spoken.

He didn’t like this. He didn’t like it at all.

Daryl nearly knocked over Tara as he opened the trailer’s door and found her right there on the steps, her fist in the air.

"Hey," Tara said, clearly surprised.

"What happened?" Daryl asked immediately.

"Damn, you already assume something's wrong?"

"I know something’s wrong."

"Well… yeah… something’s happened. Dante didn’t come back last night—"

"What?"

"We didn’t even know that you had sent him back until this morning, when the first group returned. Paul and Eduardo have gone out with the bikes to look for him. We've been trying to keep radio communication with them, but you know these things aren’t working well lately."

"When was the last time you talked to them?"

"About half an hour ago." Tara turned and started to walk toward Barrington House. Daryl followed. "They got in touch to say they had found the bike, but the coverage was shit."

"Dante had a radio—"

Tara shook her head. "He didn’t answer any of our calls."

Tara opened the door to the mansion and they headed for the office. There were Maggie and Eugene. The woman's elbows rested on the desk and she held her head with both hands, watching the radio in front of her. Eugene was sitting across the desk, talking about something Maggie didn’t seem to be paying too much attention to.

"I understand what you’re saying, but that won’t help us _now_ , Eugene," she said just as Tara closed the door behind them. Maggie looked up. "Daryl…"

He was not sure if it was relief or uneasiness what he perceived in Maggie's voice, whatever it was, she didn’t move from the chair.

"Do we know anythin’ about them?" Daryl asked.

"No."

"It’s gettin’ dark."

No one added anything to that obvious statement and all went silent as they thought about how to proceed. Going out to get them was not a feasible option at the time, leaving Hilltop at night and not knowing where they could be found, or if they even had located Dante, was reckless. Paul and Eduardo knew how to handle themselves, but of course none of them wanted to sit idly by. It was too cold outside and it seemed like it would start snowing again soon.

No one spoke and silence fell over the room with force. Daryl stood by one of the windows; he could see his own tired and disheveled reflection on the glass, mingling with the gloomy landscape on the other side. The clouds were becoming darker and more threatening. The wind blew hard, making the leaves flutter in the air. The first snowflakes appeared soon after; still small and weak, flying around, barely able to land on the damp ground.

Daryl closed his eyes. It could have been hours, minutes, or just seconds when he opened them again as a ripped sound came from the radio. They all moved quickly around the table. Maggie already had grabbed the radio.

They waited.

"Paul here, do you copy?"

Daryl drew a shuddering breath. Paul's voice sounded weak and distant.

"Paul, it’s Maggie here. We’re hearing you."

"We found him."

There were some relieved sighs and groans, but the tension was still lingering over them.

"Is he okay?" Maggie asked.

After what seemed like an eternity, the office was filled with Paul's distorted voice again. "He's alive." There was a pause, and Daryl shifted nervously. "He had an accident with the bike, we think he might have a broken ankle. We need someone to bring Alex and a car."

Maggie was about to answer him when Daryl snatched the radio from her hands. "Paul?"

There was another moment of silence.

"Daryl?"

"Where are you?"

There was no immediate response. Daryl was about to ask the question again, but then Paul spoke, explaining more in detail what had happened. Dante had strayed from the road about two miles away from Hilltop because he had thought he had seen something suspicious. After some directions, Daryl thought he knew where they were. It was an area where there was nothing but vegetation—a stony and steep place. Paul told them that Dante had lost control over the bike there, then he had tried to use his radio to contact them, but the device had been damaged during the accident. He had thought about walking the distance to Hilltop on foot, but he had felt a severe pain in his leg, so he had looked for a safe place nearby where he could get sheltered during the night. At least the _fucker_ —Paul's words—had managed to light a fire to keep him warm.

The communication was cut short abruptly a moment after. Maggie got up quickly and crossed the office in a couple of strides.

"Okay, I'll get Alex—"

"I'll set the car up," Daryl said before Maggie could continue.

"I'm coming too," Tara added.

"No need," Daryl said.

"Someone has to bring Dante's bike back."

No one protested, and as Tara went to get some warm clothing and Maggie headed for Alex's trailer, Daryl walked to the shed where all the cars were parked. He didn’t know whether to feel relieved, knowing Dante was fine, or frustrated because all of a sudden they seemed to be pursued by bad luck.

He walked past the stables; again thinking about the vacation with the horses Paul had almost begged him for.

He sighed deeply.

He never had seen himself riding a damn horse ever again after what had happened while searching for Sophia back at the farm. But he had. He had done it for Paul, because he had seen that contagious enthusiasm in his eyes every time he climbed on Dama's back.

The handsome black horse he'd gotten used to riding, Sirius, had been at Hilltop from the start. Daryl had never paid any attention to him, because he had not entered the stables before Ezekiel had presented himself with the appaloosa mare as a thank-you gift for Paul. But those intense black eyes had watched him suspiciously since he had set foot there, and at that very moment, Daryl had fallen in love with him.

Daryl stopped short when he saw someone coming out of the stables and his body froze completely as it turned out to be Peter Bennett. He hadn’t seen him in person yet, but he had no doubt that it had to be him—the stranger with the bushy beard and a shaven head that everyone was talking about. This was the man who had transformed Paul's always-calm expression into one of embarrassment and weakness Daryl never had seen before.

"Oh… hello," Peter said, somewhat surprised to stumble upon someone.

The sound of his low, hoarse voice vibrated through Daryl’s body in form of a shiver, a tingling that went through his limbs making them tremble. Daryl clenched his hands into fists and took a deep breath. "The fuck are you doin’ there?"

Peter cocked his head in confusion, and then he raised an arm, showing him the metal bucket he held. "Feeding the horses," he replied calmly. "Daryl, right? Yeah, I think you're the only person I haven’t met yet."

"Looks like you got too much time on yer hands."

The accusation didn’t seem to bother Peter, it even made him laugh. "Well, there’s not much else I can do," he said, pointing to his right leg. "Even feeding the horses is an effort if I'm standing for a long time. But I want to pay for the meds so I won’t complain. I’ll do what I have to do."

"Good."

Daryl started to walk again, passing Peter without saying another word. Around them the night was already falling and the snowflakes were coming down more insistently. Daryl could see his breath fade into the wind as he breathed with difficulty. He couldn’t stop thinking about Paul's words and the promise he had given him. But in a single instant, the face of that man, lit only by the dim light coming from the stables, had been burned into his head. He tried to erase those unreal and bleak images of memories that weren’t his own from his mind. Just imagining the bastard laying his hands on Paul made him nauseous.

Daryl shook his head, forcing himself to remain calm even though he was aware that Peter was following him. Each of his steps creaked on the gravel and mud.

"Have they found the boy?"

_Think before you act._

"Yes," Daryl answered roughly when he reached Paul's 4x4 and opened the back doors; then he began clearing the seats of the boxes and gadgets that were piled up there.

"Is he okay?"

Daryl took a deep breath from the icy air. "That's what we're gonna try to find out," he replied unwillingly.

For a moment, there was only silence. Daryl wanted to turn around and see if Peter had disappeared, as if all this had been nothing more than a passing hallucination, but he knew the man was still there, his presence growing as strong and heavy as the blow of a hammer.

"I hope it's nothing serious," he said then.

Daryl didn’t answer. He also wished Dante had nothing serious, but right now, he found it difficult to think about those on the other side of the walls. Dante, Eduardo… Paul. Daryl pushed the objects away as fast as he could, still aware that the man's eyes followed each of his moves.

"Do you need help?"

"No!"

Daryl's voice sounded so loud that its echo could be heard bouncing and get lost in the early night. Peter took a surprised step back.

_Think. Damnit. Think._

"What the—okay," Peter said, hands up in a peace-offering kind of way. "I'm leaving. I thought they exaggerated when they talked about you, but I guess not."

Daryl didn’t take his eyes off Peter as he opened the trunk to store everything there. The question weighed on the tip of his tongue, yet he knew it was best to remain silent. Peter must have read it in his eyes, though, because he answered, "People talk."

"I don’t give a shit."

"I see…"

Daryl closed his eyes for a brief moment. He could feel the throbbing of his pulse that beat harder with every passing second. He breathed deeply again, and then he began to put all the boxes in the trunk. Behind him, he could hear Peter moving, ready to leave.

"Still, it kind of surprises me anyway," Peter added.

_Think. Just think._

Daryl squeezed the last box into the trunk and watched Peter as he walked away. This time, the question slipped from his lips even before he could do anything to stop it. "What?"

Peter turned, shrugging casually. "You and him… Paul. You live together, yes?"

"Yeah, he is my _boyfriend_. Ya got a problem with that?"

Daryl didn’t realize that his body had started to move until he had seen Peter step back. Suddenly, they were close, too close.

"Whatever, man," he said. "I guess I just don’t know Paul as much as I thought."

He hated the way Paul's name sounded coming from his mouth, as if he really had any idea of who the man Daryl had met was, the man who had opened his eyes, the man who had dug, _yes_ , he had dug deep to unearth the person hidden inside him.

"You don’t know shit," Daryl snapped, taking another step forward.

"Hey, relax, man. The fuck is wrong with you?"

_Think, fucking hell! Think._

Daryl closed his eyes and stepped back. His heart was beating so hard that it felt about ready to tear out of his chest. "Just leave," he said, his voice as harsh as the roar of a lion.

For a moment, there was confusion on Peter's face, but it was a flash that quickly disappeared to become a shadow that darkened his features, hardening them with something that Daryl could only define as anger.

_Think. Think. Think._

Daryl took another step back but Peter spoke before he could get far enough. "What did he tell you?"

"Leave," Daryl warned again.

But this time, it was Peter who moved. "What the fuck has he told you?"

"Stop or I swear I'll split you from ear to asshole if ya take another step." Daryl could feel the exasperation in his heart and the rage in his voice.

"What the fuck did he tell you?" Peter asked, raising his tone.

"Enough."

"Did he tell you about the beating?"

"The beating?"

"Already told him I’m sorry, okay? I was a stupid kid, I didn’t—"

"You fucking kiddin’ me?" Daryl's body moved forward again, approaching Peter dangerously.

_Think._

Peter stumbled, about to lose his balance, as he took a step back in an attempt to put some distance between them. Around them the wind was blowing more roughly and the snow was falling hard, covering everything that stood in its way.

"What's your fucking problem?" Peter gritted his teeth.

" _You_ are my fuckin’ problem."

Peter shook his head, as if he didn’t really understand what was happening. "You don’t know me. You have no idea."

_Think. Just think. Turn around and get into the car._

Instead, his body leaned over the other man, who was a few inches shorter than him. "I know you're a fuckin’ rapist," his voice so hard it hurt in his throat.

His words, however, didn’t frighten Peter—something seemed to awaken inside him. His eyes shone with anger in an otherwise dark night.

"Is that what he told you?" he asked gravely. Their height difference didn’t bother the man who stepped forward, shortening the distance between them again. Daryl could even feel his agitated breath. "Is _that_ what he told you?"

_Think._

"Just fucking get outta my face."

"No. You're accusing me—"

"Piss the fuck off if ya don’t want your fuckin’ face broken right here."

"Do it! But that’s not gonna change anything. He was a coward. Did he tell you that too, huh? Did he tell you how he chickened out after cock-teasing me for weeks—months! Fucking _begging_ me for—"

There was no time to think.

Daryl didn’t realize what was happening until he felt an electric pain coming up his right arm. His knuckles burned and his body reacted without him doing anything to stop it.

_Think?_ No, there was nothing to think about. This man, _this_ _motherfucker_ , wasn’t even aware of what he’d done, what he had done to Paul in the past, or what he was doing to him now.

He gritted his teeth as he felt the gravel digging into his knees. They were on the ground. Peter let out a wailing groan and his face contracted in a wince as he tried to push Daryl off him. But he held him tightly, letting his fist fall over Peter’s face over and over again. His bones hurt, he felt his skin break, he could even feel the dampness of blood on his knuckles, not sure if it was Peter's or his own. But nothing seemed to be able to stop him now, not even the fact that all of a sudden Peter had stopped moving beneath him.

Voices.

There were voices that sounded distant but were near. Daryl knew, because in a second he felt hands and arms coming out of nowhere, grabbing him as they tried to drag him away. Maybe it was two or three people, but to him it felt like a fucking army.

He fought them while they kept pulling him and shouted and begged him to stop—asking, without waiting for an answer, what the hell was going on. He fought in an attempt to break free, and in that struggle, he was sure he had hit someone with his elbow. But there was no time to think, was there? Daryl jumped on Peter again. Those arms and hands seemed to multiply suddenly; they surrounded him, grabbed him and held him. They also pushed him, and did it with force until they finally managed to pull him from the other man.

Daryl fell to the ground, it was cold, but his body was burning inside. His pulse had become sharp, his chest was moving furiously, demanding air that was struggling to find its way to his lungs. Everything was blurred. He could only discern shadows moving around him and the snow, _so white_ , falling over them like the curtain of a theatre.

Yes, the show was over. No applause was heard, though, there was only silence.

The flakes that fell and melted on his face, reddened by rage, seemed to wake him from that strange and horrible trance.

The ground creaked.

Daryl turned startled and saw someone crouch down beside him. It was Maggie. Daryl couldn’t read the expression on her face, nor did he wait for the woman to say anything. He looked around, watching the scene as if he were not part of it. Peter was still lying there; Marcus and Mandy were trying to help him get up. His face was a fucking mess. Tara was a few yards to his right, holding Alex who was half sitting on the ground. His expression was a mixture of surprise and confusion. He was touching his cheek and swollen lips. He had a cut and there was blood.

Daryl’s stomach clenched. He took a deep breath that clung to his chest. Then looked back at Maggie—there were so many questions reflected in her green eyes that he could almost feel them ringing in his ears even though she said nothing for a long moment. But when she finally spoke, the words were not meant for him.

"Alex, you okay?" Maggie asked, not looking away from Daryl.

"Yes," he replied, no determination in his voice, though.

"Tara, take the car. You, Mandy, and Alex go find the others right now. Marcus, take Peter to the hospital trailer." Maggie's attention was back on Daryl even though it had never really left him. "You and I are gonna go to the office now."

Everyone began to move; still, Daryl had the feeling that everything around him was happening in slow motion. Even the snowflakes seemed to have stopped in the air.

The roar of the car's engine filled his ears in what had become a moment of exasperating bewilderment. No one spoke—nobody said anything. There was nothing to say anyway. Or there was, but nobody dared to do so.

When he looked up, he saw the 4x4 heading for the gates. Marcus walked away, helping Peter, holding him to prevent his body from falling back to the ground. There was only him and Maggie, and the distant eyes of the curious who had approached, attracted by the commotion.

Maggie stood up and held out a hand for him. Daryl silently refused. He didn’t deserve it. In fact, he didn’t deserve many of the things he had now.

He felt cold.

At least he deserved that—the cold that numbed his muscles and the icy dampness seeping into his bones. It hurt. But he deserved that, too. The pain. Although he knew that it was not the biggest pain he was going to feel, no, he knew this was just the beginning. He _knew_ there was something else waiting for him, and as tired and exhausted as he was, the only thing that came to his mind as he tried to get up was how fucking shitty that week had been.


	9. 07

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning in end note. Please check to be safe.

8 MONTHS AGO.

 

The first rays of sunlight streamed through the tiny window, timidly bathing the room; something exceptional after several days of uninterrupted snowing. The sun stroking his skin made him feel good, although it was another type of warmth and other type of caresses that were lighting up Daryl's body like dry wood catching fire. There was no dryness in the room, however, their bodies shone with sweat and their warm breaths welcomed the coolness of dawn.

Daryl groaned as Paul began to move faster. He slid his hands down Paul’s back and grabbed his ass, pulling him closer, forcing Paul to sink deeper inside him with a gasp. He could feel Paul’s breath on his cheek and neck as he thrust into him with increasing rhythm.

They had been living together for five months now, and Daryl still felt overwhelmed by all these feelings that would wake up whenever Paul touched him like he was doing now. He was not intimidated by sex; after all, sex was just sex, and they certainly weren’t shy around each other when they were alone. Yet at times, he couldn’t help but feel vulnerable, aware that he was letting Paul touch him like no one else had ever done before. There were also times when he felt guilty for not allowing this to happen more often. He wanted to give himself to Paul the same way Paul gave himself to him, but sometimes, he couldn’t help but feel almost as anxious as the first night in Paul's room before they had separated, without knowing if they would ever see each other again.

Paul tried hard to make him feel like there was no one else in the world, as if only the two of them existed. He liked that, of course he did, and his insecurities almost dissipated into thin air like cigarette smoke every time he stared into those blue eyes while Paul caressed and kissed him.

They could be rough and dirty, too. They could fuck against the wall in the middle of the short hallway without even getting rid of all their clothes—fast and messy, and Daryl loved the spontaneity of it. But he also liked these moments of tenderness when Paul took control and taught him that there was another way to enjoy the physical aspect of their relationship.

He closed his eyes as Paul's lips captured his mouth in a hurried kiss. Daryl gasped, trying to catch his breath without pulling away. He sucked his tongue and when Paul groaned, the sound sent vibrations all along his throat. They kissed for a long time until Paul leaned back, resting his palms against the mattress to push harder and faster. Daryl moaned loudly. _Fuck_ , yes, he liked it, and it was at times like these when he wondered why he didn’t let himself get carried away more often, why he sometimes still felt like this was a sign of weakness or made him less manly.

He loved Paul, and wanted him to touch him just as he was doing right now, leaning over to kiss him again. Daryl let his hands run up Paul's arms, over his shoulders and back, to end up clinging to his waist as they shared another breathless kiss.

When they parted for air, Paul pressed his forehead against Daryl's, increasing the speed of his thrusts. Daryl felt his cheeks light up; his whole body burned. He couldn’t help but wonder if this could last forever or if fate had other plans for them. Happiness had been a stranger to him all his life, only seldom crossing his path; now, he was afraid of losing it at any moment without being able to do anything about it.

He didn’t want that to happen. Maybe he was stubborn, but he certainly wasn’t stupid. For once he wanted more, and although he sometimes felt selfish for craving something he thought he didn’t deserve, he also realized that he desperately clung to this new self that had awakened inside him.

Daryl pressed his thighs against Paul's hips and felt the well-known pleasure in his groin beginning to build up. Paul kissed him again, plunging his fingers into Daryl's damp hair. The heat inside him stirred as if shaken by an earthquake and his skin reacted to every brush of Paul's tongue.

When their mouths pulled away, Paul whispered, "You are amazing."

Was he? Probably not, but Daryl let himself be loved anyway. He let that inner fire that went beyond physical pleasure intoxicate him and he relaxed against the mattress as the weight of Paul's body seized him. The mere thought of Paul taking control, holding and guiding him, managed to shake him, and he was more than happy to let it happen if it meant feeling this way—safe and free. He didn’t need to hide behind a protective mask, when he was with Paul, he could finally be himself.

Suddenly, Paul stopped his pace and knelt on the mattress, trailing his soft fingers over Daryl's shoulders and chest without taking his eyes off him. Then he placed his hands on his legs, moving them and adjusting his posture so that his knees brushed Paul's ribs as he leaned over him. A snarling grunt ripped through Daryl's throat as Paul's hips started to rock again.

Paul's hard breath tickled Daryl's cheek as he kissed his neck and bit right beneath his earlobe. Daryl's cry of pleasure and pain echoed in the walls—his gasps were caught between Paul's lips when he captured his mouth, murmuring between harsh kisses. Paul’s beard clawed at his skin and he had no other choice but to surrender; he couldn’t stay still, he couldn’t stop touching, he couldn’t stop wanting. His body reacted involuntarily with every movement, with every caress, his back arched almost painfully, and his fingers clung tightly onto Paul's hair while their bodies collided roughly.

"Fuck…" Daryl gasped.

Paul smiled and pressed his cheek against Daryl's as he picked up his pace. His whole body trembled; the aching pleasure was overwhelming, and not even the pain of his own need for release could distract him from the man in his arms. Their eyes met for a moment and neither of them blinked, just looked at each other as Paul pushed inside him again and again.

Paul couldn’t keep the pace for much longer, even though Daryl begged him not to stop. He was close—Daryl could feel the tension building up in the other man’s body. Paul buried his face in Daryl's neck and gasped his name. Daryl dragged his nails down his back and Paul's answer was another agonized cry, letting go and emptying himself deep inside him.

Daryl held him firmly, while Paul shivered uncontrollably, and didn’t let him go until he finally stopped moving and dropped all of his weight on top of him. Paul moaned, it was a tortured and exhausted sound, he also said something as he pressed his lips against his neck, but Daryl couldn’t understand a thing. His body was still on edge, to the point that a simple caress could make him explode. Daryl moved slightly beneath Paul's body to take himself in hand, but Paul grabbed his wrist with one hand and let the other travel between their bodies, wrapping his fingers around his throbbing cock and stroking him softly as he offered him a candid kiss. Then he moved back, placing himself between Daryl's thighs and taking him into his mouth without wasting any second.

"Oh shit…"

It was not long before Daryl felt his whole body tearing and his muscles twitching. He buried his fingers in Paul's hair and let his hips move almost instinctively against his mouth.

"God—Paul."

He was close; he could feel the searing electricity running all over his body. Paul replaced the warmth of his mouth with the softness of his fingers and continued running his hand along his length.

"C’mon, Daryl," he said in a whisper against the skin of his hipbone.

Daryl choked out a last groan and his orgasm came so hard that his vision blurred, while his whole body shook under an uncontrollable wave of pleasure. Paul didn’t stop sliding his hand over his cock until Daryl managed to relax.

Breathing erratically, he opened his eyes when he felt the mattress jump and Paul lay down beside him, their sweaty bodies pressing together.

"Good morning, archer."

They both laughed, though their chests swayed furiously, demanding more air. Daryl put his arm around Paul, pulling him closer—more than was humanly possible, and pressed a kiss on his forehead. _God_ , yes, he was still getting used to this, to the way Paul looked at him and the way he made him feel. He was still getting used to being loved, but he was more than willing to let it happen.

 

 

* * *

 

 

TODAY.

 

His heart pounded as Maggie closed the office door. It had nothing to do with how she did it; it was not a hard or an angry blow, quite the opposite, but Daryl knew that they were alone now. He kept his gaze pinned to his swollen, reddened, blood-splattered knuckles, because he couldn’t meet her eyes, which he knew were watching him in consternation.

"Sit down," she said. Her voice sounded surprisingly soft, but there was a thread of strange formality in it that made him shudder.

Shaking his head, Daryl refused the invitation and Maggie didn’t press. They knew each other too well; maybe that was why he felt his world begin to crumble when he heard her exasperated sigh. He didn’t dare to raise his head to look at her, but he could hear her heavy steps moving uneasily around the office.

"What the hell," she said then, her tone rising slightly.

She had lost the firmness that characterized Maggie as a leader; the woman talking to him now was just Maggie, his friend and family. Her voice sounded desperate when she spoke again, "What the hell, Daryl? What the hell happened out there? Is anyone going to explain to me what the fuck is going on? Because it’s obvious that there’s much more than Paul is telling me, and I have no doubt that you know what it is."

Daryl ducked his head further, watching his nervous hands. What could he say? He knew that no explanation would please her, and he couldn’t justify his actions by telling her the truth, because that meant betraying Paul even more than he already had done. Whatever he said, he was fucked and he didn’t have the slightest doubt about it.

His stomach lurched in such a way that Daryl thought he would throw up right there over that stupidly spotless and expensive carpet—in front of Maggie, when all she was looking for was an explanation he could not give her.

"Paul has slept all week in my room," Maggie said with a masked tranquility, although it was obvious that she was not giving him this information casually. Daryl’s head snapped up to look at her. "At first I thought he was just overreacting about the fact that you were out, but then I realized that that was only a small part of what was going through his head. He is stressed, nervous… exhausted. There's something I know he's not telling me, and that doesn’t make me feel any better about the things he _did_ find out about Peter. Did you know he has a camp?"

Maggie went silent for a moment, but Daryl had no doubt she was not expecting him to talk. Yes, he knew about it, even though they had tried not to touch the subject again after their argument the first night, Paul had told him that Peter was not alone. Paul had still showed himself unsure about his actions, for having risked bringing Peter to Hilltop, but at the same time, he had been determined to find out more about where he came from. Daryl hadn’t wanted him to do it, he didn’t want to see him near that man, but he hadn’t said anything about it at the time.

"Do you know what they do?" Daryl had been so engrossed in his own thoughts that he almost jumped when he heard Maggie's voice again. "You know what they do to survive? Steal. They steal from other communities, Daryl. We've let a thief enter Hilltop, and do you know the worst part? We can’t throw him out now because that would only put us in a complicated situation. We have to be polite to him for our own sake." Maggie laughed, though she didn’t seem amused. "Paul talked about the possibility of making a deal with them; providing them with whatever they need in exchange for something they can offer us. But we aren’t sure how that could work out, with them more than two hundred miles away from here—if Peter is even telling us the truth, and of course we are not letting them stay here, not now. So the only solution we have found is to be on our best behavior, to be hospitable, help him recover, let him go, and make sure he never comes near these walls again."

There was another moment of silence and Daryl thought he heard his own heart hit the ground. _Hell_ , he knew it was snowing outside, but he could have sworn that the house was getting colder and colder quickly. Or maybe it was just him and the dreadful feeling of discouragement that grips you when you realize that you have fucked everything up even more than you had thought at first. This was not only about Paul anymore, but also about Hilltop.

"I just want a reason, Daryl," Maggie added with vexation in her voice. "Paul, Eduardo, Tara, Mandy, Alex… all of them are out there looking for Dante. I don’t know what his condition really is and I can’t stay here to wait for them to come back either, because I have to go see that man and try to convince him that this whole thing was just a misunderstanding."

But it wasn’t. Daryl knew that, and so did Peter.

Daryl slumped down on one of the armchairs decorating the central area of the office; a sigh left his lips, filling the air with the whine of a muffled moan. He rubbed his face energetically in a vague attempt to clear his own mind, but it was useless.

"I…" he finally said.

But that was all.

The words turned mute under the frantic throb of his heart and the choking dryness that threatened to tear his throat apart.

He lifted his head when he heard Maggie sit in the opposite chair, but he looked away when their eyes met. His agony was so obvious and her gaze so intense that, for a brief moment, Daryl thought she would be able to read his mind.

"Help me understand it, Daryl. I know you. I know you wouldn’t do something like this without a reason. Daryl—" Daryl shook his head and Maggie snorted in resignation. "You know there are rules about this kind of behavior."

"Do whatever you have to do," he replied hoarsely, his eyes never leaving his hands.

Maggie leaned forward and placed a hand on his arm, squeezing it gently. "Don’t forget that I’m still your friend, Daryl. You are my family, my brother." Then she stroked his cheek, but when she stood up, her voice went back to an authoritarian tone. "Go to your trailer, we'll talk tomorrow."

 

***

 

He felt like a complete idiot when, for a second, he believed that getting into the trailer would make him feel better, but anxiety welled up inside him like a geyser. He looked at Cat who, contrary to what was usual for him, sat a few feet from the front door—watching him. Daryl knew it was a stupid thing to think, but it really seemed like the animal was able to notice that something was wrong.

"You have no idea," he murmured, surprised that his voice had been able to overcome the knot in his throat.

For a moment, which could have been hours or just minutes, Daryl lost track of time. He stood there, in front of the door, while his gaze was unable to register anything around him, it was as if everything had suddenly disappeared and he was in the middle of an empty, colorless place, devoid of shapes. Silence surrounded him and hammered in his brain, which felt as empty as everything else.

He shivered as the drops began to fall over his bare skin, he was not even aware when he’d gotten into the shower, but he let the hot water relax his muscles for a brief moment, a pleasant feeling that didn’t last long. The water became icy quickly, or so it seemed to Daryl. Another punishment, another retaliation that he accepted stoically, as he had done so many times when he’d clenched his teeth and held back every noise coming from his mouth as he’d felt the sting of his father's belt against his flesh. He had often wondered if he’d really deserved it—that uncontrolled rage, impossible for a child to understand. He assumed he hadn’t, but he was convinced he did deserve this, he did deserve to feel as he did now, watching the water slide down his knuckles and fingers like thousands of snakes, dyed red with the blood that he was still not sure if it was his or that motherfucker’s.

The cold air punched him as he left the bathroom. Paul had not returned yet, and for the first time since he'd first met him, Daryl felt some relief about his absence.

_Fuck_.

Guilt struck him like an arrow.

Of course he wanted to see Paul, he hadn’t wanted anything else since they’d left the outpost. He could almost feel the tingling that had swept all over him when he’d crossed Hilltop’s high walls again. What he felt now was very different, though. He knew that it was no longer Paul's smile what would await him as soon as the trailer door opened, and only imagining the disappointment on his face made his heart sink into his stomach. Disappointment for not being able to keep his word. Disappointment for compromising not only Paul, but also Hilltop and his people. What could happen if Peter decided to leave now? What could happen if Peter returned with his people and, in an act of revenge, decided to attack them and take everything they had? He could almost perceive the smell of that resentment and hatred, and it was very similar to the smell of death.

Nausea churned his stomach as he entered the bedroom to put on some clothes. His fingers were growing numb and he was not sure if it was due to the cold air or the incessant tension in his body. He still got dressed quickly, headed for the kitchen, and crouched in front of the wood stove. Cat watched him closely; Daryl would have sworn he'd even seen concern in his amber eyes.

After turning on the stove, hoping to warm the trailer a little, Daryl put some food in a bowl for Cat. The animal hesitated before jumping off the couch and starting to eat.

Daryl had to cling to the counter to keep his balance when he approached the sink. Suddenly his whole body throbbed with a strange feeling of nerves and uneasiness, and staring at the mugs inside it didn’t make him feel any better. He remembered what Maggie had told him: Paul had slept in her room during those past days and he had to wonder why. Was he really that scared of Peter Bennett or was something else going on? What Daryl was sure about was that Paul hadn’t done it because he wasn’t able to spend a few days alone. He knew Paul better than that and Maggie did too. He understood the woman's concern, though; he would have felt the same if he had stayed here, probably becoming Paul’s shadow until he figured out what the real problem was. But he'd spent all the fucking week outside and now he had not the faintest idea what was really going through Paul's head.

The sudden urge to have Paul in front of him filled Daryl, but it vanished as soon as it had appeared.

Again, a sense of guilt assailed him, and before his brain had the chance to undermine his sanity, he began to wash the mugs. He used more time than necessary for this welcome distraction. The dried coffee in the mugs had kept him busy for at least a few minutes. Then he cleaned the countertop and took the rotten tomatoes to the pig trough. When he returned, he cleaned the counter again, also the table, and although he put away the plates and cutlery they hadn’t used a week ago, he didn’t touch the construction plans. Another knot formed in his stomach when he looked at them, but he did not stop; he went to the bathroom and cleaned it, as well as the floor of the entire trailer. He even thought of changing the sheets of the bed before he realized that their spare sheets were still dirty.

At least two hours had passed when he finally sat down at the kitchen table. He was exhausted, though he knew perfectly well that it was not because of the cleaning, but because of the effort he had put in to keep his mind occupied.

All was in vain, though, as soon as he laid his hands on the wooden surface, all the weight of anxiety fell upon him again. His eyes went back to his knuckles. He had some cuts and his skin was red and swollen. He tried to cover it with his other hand, but that wasn’t enough to make him forget that the marks were there.

Trying to ignore them, he laid his eyes on the plans and traced the straight lines that formed the perfect square of the space that Paul had asked Norton to add for him.

He almost smiled.

He would have liked to imagine himself there, in his garage, with his motorcycle, surrounded by tools and pieces, and covered in grease to the ears. Paul would probably force him to rub himself with soap and water until his skin turned red before he let him touch him.

He was smiling now, a full, wide smile that disappeared so fast that it hurt.

Paul had done this for _him_ , he had thought of something he might love and enjoy, something that really belonged to him. What had he ever given Paul in return? Had he ever thought of doing something that would make him happy? He remembered the day when he’d given a record player to him. He’d found it by chance and the thing had looked new despite the thick layer of dust covering it. He’d imagined Paul would like it, but he would never forget his face after he’d entered the bedroom and seen it. Daryl had waited for him in the kitchen, pretending to be distracted by cooking. When Paul had appeared there and Daryl had turned to look at him— _fuck_ , the smile on his face, the glistening in his eyes…

Melancholy settled on him. That memory, however, paled compared to the only thing Paul had ever asked him to do in all those months of being together, the only thing he'd made him promise since they’d known each other, and yet, he hadn’t been able to keep his fucking word.

The minutes passed with a strange rhythm, one moment he had the feeling that he’d been sitting there for hours, the next seemed like the time had stopped, weighing on his shoulders like a rock.

He took a deep breath, but all the air rushed out again. What the hell was wrong with him? He had made a mistake, yes, he knew that, and he had to own up to it as the adult he was. He had to stop whining and gather his courage to face what he knew could be coming. He was strong, or at least he wanted to believe so. He had faced worse situations even before the world had ended. He had seen people die. He had killed. He had been forced to leave some members of his new family behind, and yet he was still here. Compared to all of that, this was nothing, just a ridiculous mistake.

However, all those thoughts faded away like the fog when the sun rises, as the roar of the engines filled the quiet night air. Without moving from the chair, he glanced at one of the windows and saw the lights dancing in the darkness as they entered the colony with the speed and noise of a whitewater river.

Daryl thought about getting up and out to check that they were okay, cursing himself for not having thought of Dante, not even for a miserable second, during all that time. But his legs seemed to be rooted to the wooden floor. So he just did one thing: wait. Something that became more distressing with the passing minutes. There were moments when he just wanted that door to open to end his agony. See Paul again, hug him, and forget that all this shit had happened. But at the same time, he just wanted to be able to fade away and become as invisible as he’d felt most of his life.

He was not sure how much time had passed, but his heart nearly came out of his mouth when he heard the hurried footsteps on the gravel outside. The trailer had already warmed up, but a chill ran through his body, and he almost choked with his own breath when the trailer door swung open and Paul came inside.

He had to blink several times when he looked at the man. Everything about him was familiar and yet Daryl had the feeling of watching a stranger. His unkempt hair was tied back, his face looked dirty, but even the filth couldn’t hide the paleness that enhanced the dark circles under his eyes. His usually crystalline eyes were now just as black as the night around them. The worst of it all was his expression though—so grim that Daryl was sure he would have stepped back if he weren’t sitting on a chair.

The silence was heavy and suffocating. Daryl opened his mouth to say something before his eardrums exploded, but he didn’t even know what to say. That he was sorry? Was that enough? He still moved his lips, but the words didn’t come out; his throat was so dry and contracted that he felt as if he’d swallowed a stone.

"Don’t say anything." Paul's voice, hard and low, felt like needles being shoved into his skin. "Don’t say _anything_."

Paul moved as if he was about to go to the bedroom, but turned and walked back to the kitchen. He stopped before he reached the couch where Cat was observing them, still as a porcelain figure. Daryl did nothing, just watched him, watched those eyes shine with fury and frustration.

"What were you thinking, Daryl? What the _fuck_ were you thinking? No!" he snapped before he could speak, though Daryl knew he couldn’t have done it even if he’d wanted to. "Don’t say anything. I know. I know your damn answer: you weren’t thinking, huh? That's your fucking excuse for everything, right? _I wasn’t thinking_. Well, it's about time you started thinking about what you do, fucking hell! Not thinking isn’t any justification! Grow the fuck up, because whether you think about them or not, the things you do have consequences!"

The tone in his voice had risen so sharply that it not only surprised Daryl, but also Paul, who put a hand on his mouth and closed his eyes, as if mentally convincing himself that he had to calm down. When he opened them again, however, his eyes were reddened. Daryl could sense the level of his anxiety by the way his chest moved, demanding air, and how his hands and voice trembled.

Daryl ducked his head, he couldn’t bear seeing him like this, but as his eyes settled on his hands and the marks on his knuckles, reality hit him with stunning force—probably more than he’d used to beat Peter.

"Twenty years," Paul went on, " _twenty years_ trying to forget this bullshit, trying to forget one of the biggest mistakes of my life—twenty _fucking_ years, Daryl!"

He took a deep breath, but that didn’t help him relax. His voice broke with every word he spat and his eyes were growing brighter, filling with tears of frustration that only needed a simple blink to fall over his cheeks.

"I thought I'd forgotten about it," he said then, his tone had become a strangled whisper. "I thought I'd erased it from my memory, but it was there, hidden, waiting for the right moment to jump over my neck again. And it hurts, Daryl, you have no fucking idea how much it hurts to remember how stupid I was…"

Daryl shifted in his chair, ready to get up, but the slight movement was enough for Paul to step back. Daryl stood still then, with his heart pounding furiously against his chest. He felt so fucking useless, unable to speak, unable to look Paul in the eye, unable to do anything at all while the lump in his throat continued to grow into pain.

"I'm not an idiot, Daryl, I know I’m the one who brought Peter here. I made the mistake of offering him help that he probably didn’t even deserve. But I did it, and I can’t change that now—it's _my_ responsibility." Again his voice trembled. "I didn’t want you to get involved. I didn’t want you to have anything to do with this. I know you, for god’s sake! I know you too well, and _this_ is exactly why I didn’t want to tell you, Daryl!" He tried to breathe, but instead made a rattling noise. "And I still did…"

Paul no longer fought the tears running down his cheeks and Daryl felt as if a band tightened around his chest.

"I only asked for one thing, _one_ damn thing—" Paul choked on his own words. He turned, falling back against the flimsy wall, his back resting on it, and his hands on his knees. He was having a hard time breathing and it looked like he would collapse any moment. Daryl moved quickly in his chair, but his body froze before he could get up as soon as Paul's voice rang in his ears. " _Don’t_."

Daryl didn’t think he’d ever heard that tone coming from him—cold and almost as deadly as the knives he always carried with him.

"It's too late now. It's late for all of this," he said, wiping his tears with the back of his hands. "I was waiting for you out there, you know? And I was excited." He chuckled, but it was a sad and bitter sound. "Yes, in a strange and selfish way I was excited while Dante was on the brink of hypothermia with an injured ankle. I was excited because I knew you were coming. Silly enough, I thought that this hell of a week would disappear as soon as I saw you, that everything would be alright again. But you didn’t come, Daryl. No. You were here instead of being out there, where you were needed, because you are unable to control yourself." His voice suddenly turned as dark as the pit of a black hole. "Do you think I didn’t want to do it myself? Do you think I didn’t want to break his jaw as soon as he said my name? Do you think I didn’t want to make him suffer at least a fraction of what he made me suffer? _Of course_ I wanted to, Daryl, for fuck’s sake! And I _still_ want to! But what for? Nothing is going to change, the past will still be there, even if Peter couldn’t look at my fucking face ever again, and I would feel just as miserable as you feel right now!"

Paul covered his face with his hands and murmured something Daryl couldn’t understand. Then he straightened, staring back at him and Daryl's heart cracked wide open. That defeated look… he was exhausted, tired, fed up with everything.

"I wish you understood that this had stopped being about me the moment Peter had crossed those walls."

Daryl would have liked to get up and erase those dark muddy threads that stained his cheeks. Hold him in his arms and appease his anguish as he’d done so many times for him, and tell him that everything would be okay, that they could get over it like they always did.

But he couldn’t.

"Sometimes, all I would want is for you to listen to me," he said in a whisper. "I wish you would trust me."

_I do_ , he wanted to say, but words weren’t enough to put this right.

Daryl wanted to scream at himself when he saw Paul walking towards the door, but his body didn’t respond to any of his demands. He had become a stone statue, rigid on the outside, unable to react to anything, but broken inside. He didn’t even move when the door closed and he was left alone. It was as if his brain couldn’t comprehend what had happened.

He sat still for a moment, not sure for how long, waiting for his heart to stop hurting, but the wound in his chest was getting bigger and deeper instead. Breathing was difficult and his body started to shake. He thought about getting up, getting out of the trailer to look for Paul, but he was sure that his legs would fail him as soon as he tried to stand up. He felt his eyes burning, his vision blurred, and before he knew it, tears welled up in his eyes.

He cried, full of anger and frustration. He cried more than he had in a long time. Even more than when he'd convinced himself that Paul would never wake up again. This was so different… Paul had been right there, breathing the same air, and yet he knew he couldn’t get close to him, because he wouldn’t let him. What a stupid fucking asshole he was.

Think, yes. Think.

He was thinking now when he wished he couldn’t, because all he saw when he closed his eyes was that look of disappointment and anger on Paul’s face.

What had he done?

_Don’t go near Peter Bennett._

It hadn’t been that much to ask for, had it? He looked at the blueprints in front of him and laughed through tears. He couldn’t believe how things had changed in just a few hours, when he’d imagined himself living in a house with Paul that, for the moment, wasn’t more than a bunch of lines that Daryl didn’t even know how to read.

His future.

What a stupid thing to think about in this world.

A new wave of pain threatened to tear Daryl to pieces. He rose abruptly, sending the chair to the floor and frightening Cat in the process. Then he grabbed the papers, crumpled them and threw them across the kitchen with a strangled scream.

Fuck it all. What future? There was only uncertainty in his future now.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: mild thoughts of self-harm, reference to past child-abuse


	10. 08

6 MONTHS AGO.

 

The evening breeze was cool for that time of the year, and Paul was still grateful for it. After a day on the road, breathing in the cold air was like a balm for him.

Spending so much time in the car had not been his initial plan, he’d left Hilltop early in the morning to come to Alexandria as he had done on so many occasions, but there was still so much to explore out there that taking a detour had been a spontaneous decision. Even with a map, there had been a few moments in which he had felt alarmingly lost, but when he had turned off the engine of his car in front of a secluded rehabilitation center, a smug smile had crossed his face.

He had found a lot of supplies there, even too much for his 4x4, but he would come back with a group another time and get the rest. This had been a lucky discovery, especially when things were already going so well—too well, actually. Therefore, he had the dreadful feeling that it couldn’t last forever, but he wouldn’t hesitate to take advantage of that situation while he could.

He smiled, imagining Daryl's face when he’d find out that he had entered the building alone. Cars had been parked all along the entrance, stuck in a bygone time, and he had also run into some walkers inside. He wondered, as he had done countless times before, if they would ever find an explanation for what was happening to them, if they would find out the nature of that monster waiting patiently to take over their bodies when they are no longer aware of it. He supposed that if that happened, none of them would be there to see it, so he chose not to think too much about it.

As the wind whipped on his face, he exhaled and turned his gaze away from the reddening sky when he heard the heavy footsteps on the porch’s wooden floor. Rick appeared just a few seconds later, carrying a couple of beer bottles and offering one to him.

"You know?" Paul said after the first sip. "A couple of weeks ago, I was in the Kingdom’s library, browsing a book about beers: their properties, elaboration process… it would be interesting to be able to make our own: _The Beer of the End of the World_. Probably would taste like shit."

Rick laughed. "Well, I know for a fact that we won’t be able to consume the resources from the old world forever."

Paul agreed silently and drank some more before looking at the back label of the bottle. "The book said that a well-bottled beer could last for years and years, but also that a poorly brewed beer could be toxic after a while."

Rick settled into his chair, placing and crossing his legs on the railing. "It would be pretty underwhelming if, after all we've been through, we'd end up dying because of some spoiled beer."

This time it was Paul who chuckled. "Life is ridiculously stupid sometimes, Rick."

They drank peacefully for a while, enjoying the calmness emanating from the first shadows of the night. No one was there to disturb them, Michonne was on watch duty that night and Carl was inside with Judith. The rest seemed to be going forward with their own lives too—Abraham, after Sasha had passed away, was trying to leave his ruthless and fierce side behind to focus on something that resembled a family life with a woman Paul had never exchanged a single word with. As for Rosita, who had received him at the door on his arrival, had shown herself more obstinate and nervous than usual, saying that she wanted to get out of there for a while. She claimed it had nothing to do with Abraham, and although Paul had believed her for the most part, he couldn’t deny that the daily life that had settled in the community was getting the worst of her.

Aaron still lived in the same house he had shared with Eric. It was not that he had any reason not to, but you had to be blind to oversee that the man was really struggling to overcome Eric's death—more than he had probably imagined. He was thinner and the thick beard, covering most of his face, made him look older.

As soon as Aaron had seen him—and after asking for Daryl and showing his disappointment because he had not visited them in weeks—he had offered him food and a place to spend the night; Paul had accepted immediately.

"Everything alright at Hilltop?" Rick asked after a more than welcome moment of silence.

"Yes, everything’s okay. Gregory grew tired of protesting and has finally stepped aside. Although I know he‘s had some meetings with a group of people who don’t seem very pleased with Maggie as the new leader. I don’t worry too much about it though, it seems to be the usual fuel for the rumor mill. What about you? Has Negan gone crazy yet?"

"Wasn’t he already?"

The two men laughed, but then Rick leaned forward, lowering his legs back to the floor and resting his elbows on his knees. Sighing slightly, he rubbed his face with one hand.

"To be honest, I'm not sure what I'm doing… talking to him is exhausting—and anyway, what can he tell us that we don’t know already?" Rick asked softly. "Sometimes, I go down there, wishing to see that he has disappeared, vanished; believe for a moment he has never existed. But he is still there, eating our food, sleeping under our roof in a warm bed—not too comfortable, but a bed after all. No one can get close to him… he probably hasn’t been this safe in his fucking life, not even when he had all those assholes eating from the palm of his hand. I'm convinced that many of them would have wanted to get rid of him, but no one had the balls to do it."

"Well, if you asked Daryl, he'd probably tell you to put a bullet in his head and _end that bullshit_ ," he said, adopting Daryl’s tone of voice. Rick smiled bitterly. "Anyway, even if they wanted to do it, a lot of those men lived too well to bother facing Negan."

"Not all of them."

"No, not all of them."

"I wonder what these people think when they look at us, when they look at _me_ … if they see a man who just tries to take care of his people, or if they just see another version of Negan." Rick shook his head when he noticed that Paul was going to object him. "I killed people without blinking to protect mine. We went to _that_ outpost to kill all those saviors, not even knowing what we were really facing. We only had your word, and we didn’t know you that well at the time. We killed them in their sleep, Jesus. Were they all like the men Daryl, Abraham, and Sasha met on the road? Were they all willing to follow Negan's orders and impose their rules by force? Or did they simply do it because they had no choice, to survive, just like us?" Rick leaned back in his chair and sipped his beer. "We’ll never know."

They didn’t say anything else for a while. Paul had nothing to add to Rick's speech despite having thought about it more than once. He knew that Rick probably was wondering who the good and the bad guys were, but Paul was convinced that there were neither good nor bad guys in this story. Things had stopped being black and white a long time ago. They all fought for something, some did it for power, some for their loved ones, and others simply for survival. All this involved making decisions that were by no means easy, and Paul knew that many of them weighed on Rick's conscience the same way they weighed on his.

With another loud sigh, Rick shifted. "I would have liked to see Daryl, it’s been weeks since the last time he’s visited."

"You know what he's like, underneath that shield of utter stubbornness hides a sentimental man." Rick laughed, shaking his head knowingly. "He would have liked to come, but he hates to say goodbye later. I assure you, though, that he misses you all."

"Really? Because from what I've heard, he doesn’t seem to have much time to miss anyone."

In just a second, all the tension had disappeared from Rick’s face who was now grinning. The corner of Paul's lips curved, although he was glad that night had closed around them, hiding the heat reddening his cheeks.

"It's still hard for me to believe it," Rick added, "and it's not because he's with a man—that, somehow, makes sense to me—it’s… I don’t know. Daryl always stayed away from almost everyone, living in his own world. It seemed as if he didn’t need anyone else, even though we all knew, he himself included, that that wasn’t true. He grew up believing that he had to prove himself to be the strongest man around, unaware that he also needed to be taken care of, and sometimes I feel guilty for not being there for him more."

"Daryl’s a grown man, Rick. He knows how to take care of himself, and we all have our own problems to deal with."

Rick nodded. "I guess, in the end, he just needed to find the right person to understand and help him out of that shell of solitude. You have no idea how glad I am he finally did."

There was a brief moment of silence before Paul spoke again, a big smile spreading across his face. "This is one of those conversations, right? You show how glad you are that your friend is happy, but you end up warning me that if I dare to hurt him, you'll cut my balls off."

Rick laughed, choking on his beer. "Yes, you could say so."

"Well, I'm sorry to inform you that somebody got ahead of you. Tara reminds me whenever she has the opportunity. The number of enemies I'm going to make if things go wrong is starting to get worrisome." Paul rose from his chair, patting Rick’s shoulder. "I'd better go, don’t want to make Aaron wait for me for dinner—oh, and Rick," he said, turning to look at him before he went down the steps, "if you ask me about Negan, I'll tell you that I think you made the right decision. But I'm also sure that you know you can’t keep him there forever."

 

 

* * *

 

 

TODAY.

 

Paul was aware that the icy water was not helping him relax, if anything, it was managing to wake him up more than he already was. He wiped his face, drowning his discomfort in the soft fabric of the towel and looked out the bathroom’s narrow window of the second floor of Barrington House. The sky began to blush with different colors, leaving the darkness of the night behind. The gray clouds were still there, however, as thick as those that seemed to cloud his brain.

He hadn’t been able to sleep all night, and it was at least the fourth time he'd locked himself in the bathroom in an attempt to dispel the anxiety that clung to him like a shadow. He was still unable to erase the image of Daryl's face from his head, that expression of defeat from someone who knows that he made a mistake and is ready to receive the punishment he considers appropriate. Daryl had done nothing at all while he‘d endured all those punches in the form of words.

Paul grabbed hold of the sink. His chest tightened and he had trouble breathing. He turned the tap on and wet his face again.

Maggie was sitting on the small Elizabethan couch on which he’d been torturing his back for the past few days. She covered herself with a blanket as she watched the dawn, but turned to look at him as he set foot inside the room.

"Did I wake you up?" he asked quietly. Hershel was asleep in his crib next to the bed.

Maggie shook her head and Paul curled up besides her, letting her cover him with the blanket. "I haven’t slept much either," she said, "and you know I have a very light sleep. I didn’t expect you here last night, though. I thought you were gonna stay in the trailer."

Paul simply shrugged, acting nonchalant, although he knew he couldn’t fool her and his throat closed just thinking about having to talk about it. Maggie shifted beside him so she could look at him better, clearly waiting for a response. Paul closed his eyes and took a deep breath, but opened them again when he felt the gentle touch of her fingers, pulling a strand of hair behind his ear.

"What happened?"

"We had a fight…" Paul was surprised to hear his own bitter laugh. "Well, fight is a euphemism in this case, it was just me yelling."

"All couples argue, Paul."

Paul nodded, though he knew last night had not been a simple lover’s quarrel. He’d had those with Benjamin in the past—too many, in fact. But Paul had never lost his shit as he’d done with Daryl. His words had been cruel, so full of poison and frustration that he’d had trouble controlling them. He’d felt possessed by a version of himself he didn’t recognize, but the events of the past days had managed to overwhelm him completely. Every time he‘d sat in front of Peter, every time he‘d followed Gregory's movements from a distance, every time he‘d pretended that everything was okay—even though no one seemed to believe him anymore—or whenever the sun had been hiding behind the mountains, aware that he would have to spend another night without Daryl's almost narcotic presence at his side. Every fucking passing minute Paul had felt his strength slipping away from his body.

"What's going on Paul?" Maggie asked, pulling him out of his thoughts. "I know I'm starting to sound like a broken record, but I know there's a lot more than you’re telling me. I feel like I'm walking down a rocky path blindfolded, and seeing you like this… I want to do something but I don’t know what. Paul, who is Peter Bennett?"

Again, closing his eyes, Paul drew in a big, ragged breath. "Just a pothole from the past, someone who… someone who hurt me," he replied in a whisper. "I don’t want to think about it too much, Maggie, but Daryl knows about it, and now things have become unnecessarily complicated." He paused, resting his eyes on the crib where Hershel was still sleeping placidly, completely oblivious to the world around him. "I don’t blame him. I really don’t know why I was so surprised. I knew Daryl would react like this. I _knew_ it. And deep down, I also knew I was making a mistake bringing Peter here, even before I knew more about his camp. Shit, it would’ve been so easy to take the truck and leave him there… What a stupid way to fuck everything up."

"Peter would have died."

"I know, but—"

"I know you, Paul, and I know that would have weighed heavily on you."

"I can deal with my conscience, but I can’t deal with the fact that I may have put Hilltop in jeopardy. I know Peter has insisted that neither he nor his people are a threat to us, but I don’t trust him, Maggie, and it's that uncertainty that's driving me crazy—and now…"

And now there was Daryl. Paul didn’t know if he would be able to look into his face. What could he say? That he felt guilty and disappointed, and sad and frustrated? He wanted to hug and punch him with the same crazy sense of desperation.

 _Damnit_.

He was going to lose his mind and knew that he still had no choice but to get up from that couch and do something. His brain was completely blank and he endeavored to put some color and sanity into it—he really tried, but it was useless.

He stopped fighting his sub-consciousness when he felt Maggie get closer, wrapping her arms around him; a warm but firm hug that came without words, but it didn’t matter, Paul didn’t need them anyway. So for a moment, he just let himself be held, and they stayed like that for some time, Paul resting his head against Maggie's, and Maggie resting hers against his shoulder.

"We'll find a solution," she whispered after a while. "We always find a way. I'll talk to Peter again this morning, I'm sure there has to be a reasonable way to deal with this." She pulled away from him, just enough to look him in the eye. "Go to the trailer, talk to Daryl. You need to talk, Paul."

"I know," he said, choking on his own words. "I'm not sure if I'll be able to do it now, though."

Before Maggie could add anything, Hershel began to babble and move.

"The alarm clock," Maggie said with a gentle smile. Then she rose from the sofa, leaving the blanket there, and went to the crib, whispering sweet things as she took the baby in her arms. Paul followed, thinking how much he would have liked Glenn to be there and watch that beautiful scene.

"Look who's here, Hershel, say hello to Uncle Paul."

The baby mumbled something unintelligible and buried his drowsy face in his mother's neck. Paul and Maggie laughed softly—if things could just be this simple all the time. Paul felt his stomach tighten, watching that innocent little life whose future was as uncertain as everyone else's.

 

***

 

It seemed as if he’d run a mile before reaching the trailer. The nerves woke up again inside him, bubbling wildly in his veins as his breathing became faster and shallower. The night before replayed in his head; he remembered the rage that had engulfed him, a fury that had accompanied him as he’d stormed into this trailer headlong. He also remembered how he had opened the door, without the doubts and indecision that seized him right now.

He put a hesitant hand on the knob, but stopped when he saw that Cat was right there, sitting on the pile of cut wood. His brows drew together and he peered slightly to take a look under the stairwell. Daryl's boots were not there, although that didn’t have to mean anything. Yesterday had turned into a mess, who the hell was going to worry about a bit of mud on an already worn wooden floor.

A strange and silent cold wave received him as soon as he got inside. There was no one in the trailer, and that sense of emptiness sank into him like the sharp edge of a knife. Yet a part of him felt relieved to find himself alone.

He cursed under his breath and entered the bedroom. The bed was made, just as he’d left it a week ago. It was all he’d done before abandoning the trailer—in the strictest meaning of the word—and there were no signs that Daryl had slept in there, not even on the covers.

Paul sat down, his stomach ached and he couldn’t decide if it was because he was hungry or because of all the guilt and grief devouring him inside. He touched the quilt without thinking too much about what he was doing, and again that cold chill ran down his spine. He knew it was due to the low temperatures, but he also knew that the unwelcome tug of emotion was the way his body reacted to Daryl's absence.

He lied down on the mattress, letting out a long, hard breath and closed his eyes. He wished they could go back to their last night together, before he and Tara had embarked on that trip. He wished he could feel him here, beside him, feel his warmth and his fingers caressing and touching every corner of his skin with that new and rare confidence. He wished he could feel his breath on him as their damp, flushed bodies tangled together. But above all, he wanted to look into his blue eyes, always full with questions, and tell him that everything was okay, that they were okay, that everything would be okay.

He opened his eyes again when he noticed that he was getting cold, and for an alarming second he felt disoriented. He was lying on his side, his face buried in the pillow. He sighed heavily. He had fallen asleep, although he was not sure if he’d succumbed to that pleasant state of unconsciousness for a few minutes or for hours. The gray light streamed in through the small windows, and without moving, Paul could see that it had begun to snow weakly again.

He considered the idea of getting into bed for the rest of the day, but he was cold and knew he couldn’t get himself locked up, even if there was nothing he wanted more than to be ignored for a few hours.

He got up and stomped into the bathroom in a huff. Shivering, he took off his clothes and took a quick shower. Then he dressed in the only clean sweater and pants he had left. Cleaning the trailer, doing the laundry—none of these trivial tasks had occupied his mind during the last days. He almost laughed at himself. Who the fuck cared about such things in a world like this? But they had, because during the past months they had forgotten how serious life could get, the one on the other side of the walls, always waiting for them. They had been a bunch of fools, and yet it had been very easy to get used to this illusion of normality.

Tammy had insisted that she could take care of his dirty clothes too; she had said that it was the only way she could thank him for everything he was doing for them, but Paul had refused, he didn’t want to overwork the woman. Daryl already felt guilty enough for letting her take care of his clothes, although it was also true that he’d never dared to contradict her.

Paul’s tense face softened into a smile, but it didn’t last for long.

Taking a shuddering breath, he headed for the kitchen. The stove’s cast iron was almost cold, which meant that the fire that had warmed the trailer when Paul had entered the night before had turned off hours ago. He put some logs inside and watched the flame grow as he wondered where Daryl was. He looked around, as if expecting to find him right there.

But he was alone.

Then his eyes fell on the counter, the tomatoes were gone, the mugs were clean, and the plates were no longer on the table—his gaze focused elsewhere, though.

He got up slowly, restlessness twisted his guts and his feet moved on their own accord to the other end of the kitchen. The plans of their new home were lying on the floor, crumpled, as if they were just garbage. Sadness struck him like a physical blow, so much that he had to place a hand on the wall so as not to fall when he bent down to take the plans in his trembling, sweaty hands.

After watching them for some undefined time, he placed them on the table and tried to smooth and give them the look they’d had before all this shit had gone down.

A knock on the door startled him.

"Who is it?" he asked quickly.

The door opened and Tara came in, taking a few steps before stopping. "Can someone explain to me at what point I became the errand boy?"

If it was a joke, it didn’t sound like one. Paul stared at her, unable to read the look on her face.

"Maggie wants to see us in her office," she added, not waiting for Paul to answer.

Tara studied him as Paul approached her, and he could see all the questions shining in her eyes. Yet, she chose not to say anything, just turned around and began to walk towards the mansion. Paul followed her, wondering if Tara had seen Daryl or whether the discomfort he had felt in her was only the result of this entire absurd situation.

"What time is it?" Paul asked.

Tara gave him an odd look again. "Noon."

Paul stopped suddenly, as if she'd struck him. He couldn’t believe he’d slept for nearly four hours. He glanced around, as if expecting to find Hilltop in a state of calamity, finally consumed by the bad luck that was seemingly haunting them while he’d been obliviously drooling in his bed—but everything was as it always had been of course.

"What happened?"

When Paul set his gaze on Tara again, her features had relaxed and concern was the only thing he could discern in them. Now, he was convinced that Tara had seen Daryl, and his stomach squeezed to the point of pain, but they didn’t say anything else until they entered the office. Maggie was standing behind the desk, and with her were Eduardo, Tyler, Mandy, Marcus, and in the background, almost hidden in a corner next to the bookcase and the big window, was Daryl. Their eyes met for a brief second before Daryl quickly looked away.

Paul inhaled, his nostrils flaring as he returned his attention to Maggie. He tried to maintain his composure, despite feeling the bitter taste of bile on his palate.

"I was updating them," Maggie informed him, and although she pretended to sound calm, there was something in the heaviness of her voice that told him the conversation she’d expected to have with Peter hadn’t gone quite well. "I've told them everything you've learned about Peter and his people. They need to know what we're going to face if the time comes."

"Why would they want to attack us?" Mandy asked somewhat alarmed. "That man would be dead if it hadn’t been for Hilltop."

No one said anything, though it was more than evident that they were all making a great effort not to turn around and set their accusing eyes on Daryl.

"I didn’t say they were going to attack us," Maggie said, "but it's better to be prepared. As you know, the situation got a little bit… complicated."

"The situation was already bad enough before he decided to break the guy's face," Tyler snapped suddenly, then turned to face Paul. "This is _your_ fault! You shouldn’t have brought him here in the first place."

"Hey, I was there, too!" Tara said quickly. "We both agreed—the man needed help."

"Oh well, what a surprise, the queers making fucking stupid decisions."

The next second, the room erupted in a cacophony of shouting and yelling. Mandy jumped out of her position to stand in front of Tara, Marcus had moved to place a hand on Daryl's chest before he could even step forward, and Eduardo had grabbed Tyler by his jacket, pushing him across the office. The only ones who hadn’t moved were Paul and Maggie who shared a concerned look.

"Tyler, _I swear to god_ , I'll rip your tongue out one day," Eduardo spat.

"Okay, enough!" Maggie walked around the desk. "I didn’t call you here to discuss what we should’ve done or not, it doesn’t matter anymore. Peter is here and he wants to leave."

Paul’s head snapped up and he felt the pressure in his chest grow.

"But he can’t leave now," Eduardo said. "Who knows how his people will react when they see him like that."

He fought the urge to do it, but Paul still dared to take a look at Daryl. He, however, had his back turned to everyone, keeping his eyes fixed on the window.

"We can’t retain him here," Maggie said.

"Why not?" Marcus walked away from Daryl, coming to a halt near Mandy again.

"Do you want me to lock him up in one of the basement cells?"

"It's a possibility," Tyler said.

"It's bullshit!" Tara argued.

"So was your decision to bring him here. Couldn’t you have asked him about his camp before you started to play the Good Samaritan—"

"The fucker wouldn’t have told them anythin’."

Silence fell like a stone. They all turned to look at Daryl who had raised his voice for the first time since they’d gathered there. His eyes were dark, boiling with anger, and they settled on Paul for a moment before he turned to address Tyler and the rest.

"He was desperate for help, he wouldn’t have said shit."

His voice sounded so hard and sharp that Paul could almost feel it cut across his skin. No one dared to refute him, and for a moment, the words were replaced by a deafening and uncomfortable silence.

"I know letting him go now may seem reckless to you," Maggie said then. "Harlan talked to him, tried to convince him that it was wiser to wait until he felt better, but Peter doesn’t want to, and we can’t force him to stay. I know you're trying to be cautious, but it would only complicate the situation even more. I talked to him this morning and he wasn’t resentful, just… scared. So we have no reasons to hold him here more than our own fear for what might happen—and we don’t know what will happen." Maggie took a breath and steeled herself. "We've done this in the past, we rushed things _just_ in case, and it… it didn’t go well."

Her tone changed with the last words trembling as they came out of her mouth. "His people could show up tomorrow, but we also might not hear from Peter or his community ever again. I’m not saying Hilltop should let its guard down. We, better than anyone else, know the risks, and Peter may not come back, but if we've learned something from his presence here, it’s that there are more communities out there, armed and potentially dangerous. I’m telling you this because you’re the best of our patrol and guards; I don’t want to alarm everyone unnecessarily, but I want you to be prepared for whatever may come."

Maggie sighed and sat down on the edge of the desk, visibly exhausted, but it was obvious that she hadn’t made them come just to tell them this. Paul could guess what would come next, probably the rest too. Without turning to take a look, he knew that Daryl's eyes were on him, he could feel them piercing the back of his neck.

"Tomorrow we’re gonna set a car to take Peter out of here. We will offer him a backpack with food and water, and we’re gonna leave him close enough to his camp for him to continue the rest of the way on foot, and for you to study the area without risks or wasting too much time. I want you back before it gets dark. I need four volunteers."

"I'm going," Paul said immediately.

Tara was the next to volunteer and, to everyone's surprise, Tyler was the third. Paul could feel Daryl's uneasiness even from the other end of the room. He knew he was going to say something, he heard him drawing a sharp breath, but Maggie cut him off before any sound could slip from his lips.

"Marcus, you will go with them, too."

Marcus opened his mouth, not bothering to hide his surprise. Maggie, however, was not looking at him, her eyes were on Daryl.

"Err… okay," Marcus replied.

"Good. You can go now. Paul and Daryl, stay, I want to talk to you."

Paul's heart jumped into his throat, as if being in the same room with Daryl without the false comfort of the others’ presence was the worst thing that could happen to him after having offered himself to take Peter away from there. He was not prepared to look into his eyes, not knowing what he could find in them, and he wasn’t sure how he would react to Daryl—insecure or angry. He felt like a weathervane, agitated by the convulsive wind of a storm, not able to point to a fixed course, a destination that could make him feel strong and safe again.

Tara was the last to leave the office, she seemed confused and hesitant, but finally closed the door behind her and the atmosphere froze instantly. Maggie was still sitting on the desk, Daryl on the other side of the room, and Paul near the door. She looked at them both while Paul pretended to be fascinated by the carpet, which he was convinced Milton would be busy cleaning as soon as the room was finally empty.

Seconds, maybe minutes, passed without either speaking. Then, Maggie stood up and left the office without a word.

Paul felt every pore on his skin react as if a cold hand had touched him when the silence stretched between them, vast and awkward. He closed his eyes reluctantly, wondering for the umpteenth time what was making him feel this way. He was in the same room with the person he'd loved the most since he'd met Ben, but he still felt as if he’d been locked in a claustrophobic cage with a complete stranger. It had been so easy to talk in the past; he had learned to handle Daryl's impulsiveness, even to appease it. Now, everything was different—he _felt_ different.

Paul then thought that maybe _he_ was the stranger. He definitely felt like one. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t recognize the person who had entered the trailer the previous night like a gust of wind, yelling to the point that he’d almost felt his throat ripping apart.

It had hurt. There were so many things that had hurt inside him, and still did.

He wanted to say something, though, even if he didn’t know what. So he surprised himself when the words crawled up his tongue and shot out before he could think about it. "Where did you sleep last night?" Paul didn’t turn to look at him, but he could sense him moving.

"You won’t believe it." His hoarse voice felt like a scratch in his ear, but _damn it_ , he’d missed it. He hadn’t heard him speak to him in a week, and he realized now that he hadn’t done it either last night. When he had fired all those darts in his direction, Daryl had remained silent, letting all those blows hit him with sullen resignation. "Stayed at Tammy's," he added.

Paul turned to look at him then. His hair covered his face partly, but he could still see that his eyes were swollen and red, and his features were also tense, almost somber.

"I went out for—" he continued, clearing his throat harshly. "Whatever, that woman must have a sixth sense or somethin’."

A faint smile touched Paul’s lips. "Looks like you’ve made a good friend. I'm glad," he said. Then he sat down on one of the small couches with a deep sigh. Daryl changed his posture and seemed ready to say something, but Paul spoke again, his voice low and distant. "I had a friend back then, Martha, she was special to me. She was one of those rare friends who’ll stay by your side, no matter what you do. And believe me, I didn’t make that easy. But she never let me down, even when I kept acting like a stupid, irresponsible kid." He swallowed with difficulty. "She warned me about Peter, more than once, and I didn’t listen to her."

Paul didn’t move his eyes off his sweaty, nervous hands, but he felt Daryl approaching and stopping by the couch in front of him.

"When _that_ happened… she knew something was wrong, and I thought about telling her. I _wanted_ to tell her. But I couldn’t. I knew Martha would be there for me, even though I could imagine her pointing a finger at me saying ‘ _I told you so’_. I felt so fucking lonely." He closed his eyes and sighed. His voice was starting to crack and he could feel those unwelcome tears again. "You'll think I'm crazy, but I was so glad when they put me into the hospital. I was so relieved, because I no longer had to pretend things were okay. No one would be questioning my behavior anymore, everyone would be looking at me pitifully, but nobody would think twice about it. I would just be that poor little gay boy who’d been beaten up. And I was grateful for it, even though I knew I couldn’t fool my parents for long, but that’s a different matter."

He raised his head to look into Daryl’s eyes. "You're the only person I've ever told, and I regret that I did. But I certainly didn’t expect all that shit to blow up in my face after so long. We lived in the same city for years and our paths never crossed again. Hell, I didn’t even tell Ben, I knew that if I did, he would put on his glasses, sit in front of his computer, and play being a detective, trying to find all he could about Peter." He laughed incredulously. "You both are so different, and yet you remind me of him in so many ways… you have the same incendiary temperament and God knows that I want to be pissed at you for it Daryl, but I _can’t_ —"

Paul buried his fingers in his hair and then wiped the tears from his eyes before they could fall down his cheeks.

"I know why you did it," he continued, his voice soft but firm. "I just wish you hadn’t."

The shadow of that remaining fury finally left Daryl's face. He bowed his head in a gesture of guilt and shook it from side to side.

"M’sorry," he said in a rasp whisper. "I’m sorry for disappointing you—for hurting you." But then he looked up and his face grew dark and serious again. "But I don’t regret what I did, and I'll do it again if that motherfucker dares to open his ugly mouth in front of me." Daryl stepped forward and Paul watched him intently, his eyes shining with regret and defiance at the same time. "I know what you wanna do tomorrow," he added gravely. "I know you‘ll follow him."

Paul tried to look away, but it was as if suddenly all his muscles were stiff and an invisible force prevented him from moving.

He knew what it was.

It was the same tenacity that had gripped him the very moment Maggie had announced that Peter wanted to leave. He was scared she had said. Paul wanted to laugh. He, ironically, had decided that they were the bad guys now. But whatever he thought of Hilltop, Peter was still alive thanks to them, and Paul was going to make sure he didn’t forget about that before letting him go.

Paul lifted his chin, not bothering to show himself shocked that Daryl had been able to read him so easily.

"I won’t try to stop you because I know it’s a waste of time," Daryl said then, "but I _will_ go with you." Paul's lips parted in protest, but Daryl cut him off before he could speak. "I know what you're gonna say and I don’t give a flyin’ fuck. You can try to convince me that you can do this on your own, and maybe I’ll believe you, but I won’t leave you alone—not again."


	11. 09

4 MONTHS AGO.

 

The walls looked like wooden giants, particularly at that hour of the afternoon when the shadows spread—intimidating, especially if one took the amount of work still to be done and all the land that needed to be fenced into account. Yet Paul’s chest swelled with pride. Hilltop was growing, but there was still a long way to go before life would start to resemble what it once had been.

"I think two more watch points would be enough," Eduardo said at his side as they circled Hilltop’s perimeters toward the gates. "One at each corner. Well, maybe three… and I also think that it would be convenient to build a second emergency trapdoor in the—are you even listening?”

The question made Paul jump, as if something unexpected had touched his skin. He had been listening to Eduardo, yes, but he couldn’t deny that he’d hardly paid any attention to what he’d been saying. "Yeah, sorry, I was just… thinking."

An empathetic smile formed on Eduardo’s lips. "Do you ever stop?"

"When I sleep, I suppose."

"Sure. I've heard that the construction works at the outpost are going very well, I'd like to go there someday to check it out."

"Yeah." Paul rubbed his eyes distractedly. "I'd like to go take a look too, but didn’t have the time."

"Seriously, Jesus, take a break, man, you need to rest."

"Don’t we all?"

"You've been working tirelessly since the end of the war, even before you really should have… I know why you do it, but believe me, Hilltop has changed. I wouldn’t have told you this a year ago, but now they are ready— _we_ are. We are so much stronger."

The two men stopped suddenly, watching the thick forest that surrounded the colony. They heard the well-known ripped sounds that disturbed the sunset’s quiet atmosphere.

"I’m very proud of everybody’s hard work," Paul added, absorbed for a second, then he turned to give Eduardo a kind smile. "Especially you, you have grown a lot during these months. I've been watching you, and I've been thinking about asking Maggie to name you the security supervisor of the colony."

Eduardo raised his eyebrows in bewilderment. "Well… I… thank you," he replied, clearly surprised.

The conversation died just then. The walker they had been waiting for patiently appeared between the trunks with bizarre movements. Some time before, it had been a tall, stout man, perhaps successful in his business if the suit that hung tattered from his now bony body was any indication. Or maybe he would just have been a simple clerk. Who knew, and who cared anyway?

"They’ve been coming more often lately," Eduardo said impassively.

"The noise of the construction works is attracting them."

Eduardo nodded. The two watched the walker stumble and fall to the ground, then it stood up again with slow movements, scratching the air with its raw moans.

"Maybe one day, they will disappear, just as they appeared, you know? Out of nowhere." The lack of certainty in his voice showed that even Eduardo didn’t believe what he was saying. Paul couldn’t help but snort at his side and Eduardo smiled wearily. "Well, hope is the last thing to die, isn’t it? I'll take care of it."

Eduardo approached the walker with confidence in his step. A simple, quick, and precise movement was all he needed to silence those cries forever—or at least for the moment.

After getting rid of the corpse, the two men entered the colony. The activity continued to go on fervently, making the most of the last hours of sunshine. The noise was pleasant, so daily and carefree that it felt equally comforting and frightening.

"Look at that." For the second time in a few minutes, Eduardo managed to rescue Paul from the depths of his exhausted mind. He pointed to the small plot where Tammy's house was being built with a simple nod. This morning it had only been a wooden outline, but now it had panels covering each of its walls.

"It looks great!" Eduardo continued. "Damn, I said I was satisfied with my room at Barrington House, but now, maybe I’ll think about it."

Paul smiled and agreed, it really looked nice; it was starting to look like a house, even though a very tiny one. A home.

"Daryl said he wanted to stay here today to lend a hand and try to help them advance with their—" As if on cue, Daryl came out of Tammy's house in a simple sleeveless shirt and the jeans he always wore. He looked tired but focused; sweat bathed his skin, making his clothes cling to him like a second skin. _Hell_ , he just needed to rub a soda can over his face for the scene to look like one of those tacky ads from the nineties. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen him with fewer clothes on, but after an exhausting day, he would take the sight as a reward for all their hard "—work".

Eduardo barked an amused laugh. "I'll see you tomorrow." After patting his shoulder affectionately, Eduardo walked away toward the mansion.

Paul threw a curious look at Tammy's trailer as he passed it. Out of all, hers was perhaps the one that was in the worst of conditions; especially considering that it hadn’t been that long for the trailer to be worn down so much.

It had started with the windows, then the pipes and their insufficient and improvised installation, then the walls had begun to filter water until the time had come when Norton—in spite of Daryl's efforts to repair all those problems—had advised her to abandon the trailer. Tammy had flat out refused, but the warning that the roof might collapse one day had convinced the woman that she had to leave it. So Tammy had temporarily moved to one of the few empty rooms left at Barrington House.

They all knew that, sooner or later, they would have to do the same, although the requests raining down on Norton were more the result of impulse than pure necessity. Paul thought he would feel ashamed to be one of those impertinent neighbors, but he wasn’t. He wanted something for him and Daryl, a place they could call home and that they could build together, not only physically but also metaphorically.

He hadn’t told Daryl yet, but he was convinced that Daryl would laugh at him just for thinking about it. Daryl would settle for living under the shade of a tree as long as he could have his family nearby, and strangely enough, that was what he liked most about him. His loyalty. He needed nothing more than to feel the warmth of the people who loved him to feel at home.

Daryl was busy cutting off two long planks of wood when Paul approached him. Patiently, he waited for Daryl to stop using the saw before he showed his presence. Still, Daryl jerked in surprise when he found him there.

"It's amazing how good it looks," Paul said, admiring the small structure.

"I hope it does, we've worked all day to make it look like a fuckin’ house, and yet, we can’t work further ’cause we’ve to go out to find more material," Daryl replied, piling up the pieces of wood he’d just cut.

"You definitely do smell like a long day of work."

He was not surprised to hear Daryl mutter under his breath, but Paul hadn’t expected to hear the laugh that bounced off the empty walls of the house. Daryl shook his head with weariness as Tammy stepped through the gap of what would soon be her entrance. Her red hair looked even more vivid with the last of the evening light.

"How are you, son?" the woman asked with her characteristic husky voice.

"I can’t complain."

Tammy looked him up and down. "Well, you should, it looks like you've been rolling around a dirty gravel."

"It's been a long and hot day.” Paul nodded toward the house. “Are you happy with it?”

"I am, I don’t know how the hell everything’s gonna fit in here, but I am."

"Get out of my way if you both are gonna start gossipin’," Daryl complained.

"Well, well… did we have a bad day?" Paul asked.

"Isn’t he like this all the time?" Tammy bent down and picked up some of the wood pieces.

"Stop that, I'll take them." Daryl tried to grab the planks, but Tammy shooed him away.

"Don’t you dare tell me what to do, big boy! If you were one of my children, I’d already have kicked your ass a few hours ago."

Daryl turned to Paul, clearly looking for some help in a dispute that didn’t seem new to them. "She hurt her hand with a nail!" Daryl reproached while Tammy ignored him and continued to pick up the wood from the ground.

Paul noticed that the woman's left hand was bandaged and a small thread of blood stained the white fabric. However, and for the sake of his own physical well-being, Paul didn’t dare to point it out.

"That's why he's been treating me like one of those whiny damsels from the novels all day. I've given birth to six children. _Six_! Two of them weighed more than eight pounds. Men! The hell would _you_ know about pain?"

Tammy got back into the house, holding all the wood she could gather in her arms, spouting a string of expletives against every being with a penis hanging between their legs.

"She's as stubborn as a mule," Daryl snorted.

But the two men finally laughed in silence. They both knew that part of her frustration was due to the absence of her family. She had confided in Daryl when she’d needed a shoulder to lean on and vent all the anger she had accumulated and kept for herself for years.

Six children, as she had said. She’d raised six boys on her own after her husband had died young because of a heart attack. Three of them had become independent years before the world had collapsed. Two had married and only had dared to visit their mother once a year during Christmas, probably hoping for some kind of economic reward for both, them and the _beloved_ grandchildren. The other unashamedly appeared only when he needed money.

Tammy had been able to force the three youngest kids to continue their studies, although she’d had to work endless hours seven days a week to support them. In their adulthood, the three had sought different jobs, one of them to be able to afford his studies in a modest university, and the other two to be able to have some savings on the bank in the future that had had other plans for all of them.

Two of the boys had died shortly after the turn. Tammy never heard of the three oldest again. The youngest, and the only son she’d left, had fled with her after Tammy had loaded a bag with her husband's clothes. Daryl had asked her why she’d done that and Tammy had replied that it had been the only way she could have taken the only man with her who had truly cared for her and the only one who’d left her side against his will.

Days later, Tammy and her son had met a group of people who had claimed to go to a safe place. After a few days of travel, his son had gotten lost in the woods with some others and never had come back. Weeks later, they had reached this place, and Tammy never had mentioned her children again—until that moment.

Something had clicked in Paul's mind after Daryl had told him that story. At last he understood where the special connection between them came from. Two individuals with very strong personalities, but deep down longing to be loved by people they had cared so much for. It was obvious that even if she didn’t mention them, Tammy missed her sons even though they’d never shown her the gratitude she really had deserved. Daryl had found a mother figure in Tammy that had fought and done everything in her power to give her boys the best she could.

"I think we've worked enough for today." Tammy came out again. The sun was already hidden behind the walls and a pleasant breeze had emerged in its place. "Why don’t you bring some chairs and we have a drink?"

 

 

* * *

 

TODAY.

 

Paul tried to ignore it, but he knew Maggie's eyes were fixed on him. In fact, he could feel them following each of his movements as he folded the sheets he had used during the night. "I'll take the sheets." Paul tried to sound calm, not turning to look at her. "I'll bring them back to you after washing them."

"I thought you were gonna talk," Maggie replied, as if she had been waiting to say those words and ignoring what he’d just said.

"We did talk—after you forced us…"

"And?"

"And I've slept here."

He supposed that would be enough as an answer, but he heard Maggie move, get up from the bed where she’d been sitting, and approach him. "I’m sorry."

The apology surprised Paul and he gave Maggie a strange look.

"I shouldn’t have done that," she added. "It's none of my business, but it hurts me to see you both like this. Yesterday, Daryl looked like he didn’t even know where he was when he walked into the office, and you didn’t see his face after he hit Peter. I know he regrets—"

"No, he doesn’t," Paul interrupted, "but it doesn’t matter anymore. As I told you yesterday, I knew this would happen, blaming him now is a waste of time—and Tyler is right, it's me who brought Peter here after all." Before Maggie could answer, Paul took the sheets and turned to face her. "Everything is a mess right now; we must focus on finding a solution. The rest… can wait."

Maggie cast a meaningful glance at the crib in which Hershel slept soundly, then she returned her attention to Paul and nodded. "Okay… I'll see you in a couple of hours."

His heart began to gallop as soon as he entered the trailer despite being convinced that he was not going to find anyone there. Cat ran out as soon as the door opened and Paul saw he had new food in his bowl; otherwise, the trailer was unchanged and empty.

He barely had time to leave the worn sheets over the bed when someone knocked on the door. Paul had to work hard to keep his eyebrows from rising in surprise when he found Tammy there. The woman didn’t utter a single word, though; she simply hit him in the stomach with a plastic basket full of clothes. Paul grabbed it, confused, but immediately noticed the fragrance of homemade soap.

"Your clothes," the woman said. She wore her red hair in a bun that, if possible, accentuated her bad mood at that hour of the morning.

Paul was about to ask why she’d washed his clothes, but he actually already knew the answer. Tammy turned to leave then, but only took a couple of steps before turning back again to fix her expressive blue eyes on him. "Look, son, I don’t like to stick my nose into other people's business, and I don’t mind him sleeping on my couch, but he's more insufferable than usual, and I assure you that my house is not big enough to hold so much stubbornness, mine included. So I hope you can solve whatever is happening between you two as soon as possible."

Tammy turned to leave, but she returned her gaze to Paul before she could make a single step. "Is it because of that blabbermouth you brought the other day? Because I can take care of him."

A loud laugh almost escaped his lips, but the situation was too serious to be joked about. Still, seeing Tammy so willing to do whatever was necessary to come to Daryl’s defense made him feel a warm glow inside. Paul didn’t think he'd seen the woman do that for anyone else before.

"Don’t worry about it, Tammy, he's leaving today."

Tammy straightened her back, snorted something that sounded like "perfect", and then headed back toward her house.

The hours passed faster than Paul had imagined. He had prepared a backpack with everything he considered essential despite being aware that he would gain some questioning glances the moment he put it in the trunk of the car. He had also pampered himself with a hot—and extremely short—relaxing shower that hadn’t been able to relax him at all. At least the smell of the gel and the soap from the clean clothes had softened his mood. After all, he should feel lucky for everything they had, shouldn’t he? They had medicine, food, electricity, and hot water, even though the storage capacity of the tanks was derisory, while Peter and his people had nothing—that's what he had said, at least. Now it was time to find out if it was true or not.

 _Fuck_. He knew he would have to explain a lot of things when he returned, thinking optimistically that he would really come back, but he was also convinced that he had to do this.

His stomach dropped somewhere near the soles of his boots when his mind went back to the day before, to the conversation he’d had with Daryl, and all those mixed feelings they’d both expressed. The coldness with which they had addressed each other even after both had confessed their regret. They had talked with the same emotional distance of two people forced to work together on something that none of them seemed to think was a good idea. They had ended the conversation with a plain "see you" before one had decided that he had business to take care of in the mansion and the other had left the room without a glance back.

Paul drew in a deep breath, trying to encourage himself, and opened the trailer’s door. After several days, the gray clouds let bits of sunlight through, but it didn’t seem like it was going to clear up any time soon. Paul just wished it wouldn’t snow; the last thing they needed was to get caught in the middle of the road.

Thinking about it, maybe that would have been a good argument to convince Peter of the need to stay, but winter was close and despite the disputes and hesitations, getting rid of him was the best thing they could do.

In the middle of the colony, the gray Mercedes-Benz SUV was ready. It was one of the biggest cars they had; Daryl himself had insisted on acquiring it. Waiting next to it were Tyler, Tara, and Marcus—Eduardo was accompanying them.

As Paul had predicted, they all looked at him in bewilderment when he placed his backpack next to the one they had prepared for Peter. Paul kept his expression steady as a stone, which seemed to work, because none of them said a word.

A few minutes later, Maggie came out of the hospital trailer and approached them. She seemed less calm than she'd shown herself this morning—Paul didn’t blame her.

"You ready?" All of them affirmed almost in unison. "Good, Peter's almost done too." Maggie paused again, playing with a blue bandana between her hands. She looked around, obviously nervous, and asked, "Have you seen Daryl?"

"He and a small group took a couple of cars this morning and went to the outpost," Eduardo said.

He knew that Maggie had her eyes on him, but Paul didn’t dare to look at her, he preferred to ignore it before having to either see suspicion or pity on Maggie's face because Daryl apparently hadn’t bothered to be there, by his side, at a time like this.

There was no time to address reproaches though—the hospital trailer’s door opened and Alex and Harlan stepped out, escorting Peter. His face looked better than it had done two days ago, but his left cheek was still swollen and bruised, and he had several cuts on his lower lip and near his left eye. Even so, he looked more lost than angry, and Paul fought the impulse to feel sorry for him. ~~~~

"Tyler, Marcus, Tara, and Paul will go with you in the car," Maggie announced. Peter looked up, seemingly surprised to see Paul there. "There’s a backpack in the trunk with food, water, a blanket in case you need it, and a knife that you will only have access to after they’ve left you in a safe place."

"I still think it's best for you to stay," Harlan said then. "You need to rest and you are not in the best physical condition right now to walk a long distance, much less in this weather."

Peter looked at the doctor, with something similar to gratitude lighting up on his face, but still shook his head.

"Okay…" Clearly this was not the first time they’d had this conversation, and Harlan didn’t seem willing to keep arguing pointlessly. "I left a small bag with pills in the backpack, and some bandages. That's all we can do."

"Thanks for everything," Peter finally said.

Maggie approached him, still holding the blue bandana, something that didn’t go unnoticed by Peter. "I hope you understand that this is necessary."

Peter examined the handkerchief, and then took a deep breath. "Of course."

"Well… I hope everything goes well for you and your people, Peter," Maggie said, her voice as warm as it could be.

No one added anything else, so Maggie handed the bandana to Tara and, with a simple gesture, gave the order for them to go. Tyler stepped behind the wheel while Tara and Marcus would guard Peter in the back seats. Once inside, Tara covered Peter's eyes with the bandana when the car’s engine roared like a caged beast.

"Ready?" Tyler asked.

Silence was the answer, but it was enough for Tyler to get the car moving through the colony’s high gates at a devilish speed. Paul had no complaints whatsoever—the sooner they got this over and done with the sooner he would begin to feel like a normal person again.

 

***

 

Map in his hands, Paul had given some discreet signs to Tyler to follow secondary routes until they could reach one of the old roads that headed directly to Philadelphia. It would take them longer, but he was also sure that they would find fewer obstacles along the way.

Inside the SUV, nobody said anything, the only indication that there was life inside the car were the bored sighs that were heard from time to time. The silence felt strange, it was the only thing Paul would have asked for at that moment, and yet he was sure that the false calm born from discomfort and uncertainty wasn’t letting anybody relax; probably because none of them was convinced that letting Peter go was enough to get rid of the problem.

Maybe killing him was the best option. Putting a bullet in his head, leaving him somewhere remote and forget he’d ever existed. His people would never know what had happened to him and Hilltop could live in peace again. It was simple and easy, as it would have been to leave him in Atlantic City with the iron bar stuck in his leg, waiting for a slow and painful death.

The mere thought made Paul nauseous.

He took a deep breath through his nose and let it out again in a hard sigh. They’ve been traveling for almost an hour and had left Baltimore behind just a few minutes ago. Paul almost jumped when Peter's voice broke the stillness of the moment.

"I have an emergency," he said quietly.

Paul cleared his throat before speaking, "What kind of emergency?"

"I need to pee… Am I allowed to or not?"

All eyes were fixed on Paul. He glanced out the window, taking a look at the few houses and shops scattered around, and the large billboards where nothing could be read anymore. Then his eyes met Tyler's and Paul shook his head before addressing Peter again. "We can’t stop here," he said casually as he scanned the map. "Can you wait for a couple of miles? If not, I have an empty bottle here that you can always use."

Peter's mouth twisted in what could have been both a gesture of amusement and displeasure. "I can wait, I guess."

Paul rested his back on his seat, aware that his decision was probably being questioned, but he didn’t care.

About ten minutes later, Paul gestured to Tyler to stop the car.

"Do you still need to stop?" Paul asked.

"Yes."

Paul nodded to Tara and the woman removed the bandana from Peter’s eyes, then all of them got out of the car with guns in their hands—except for Paul and Peter. Crossing his arms over his chest, Paul watched Peter closely while he rubbed his eyes uncomfortably and studied the surroundings. Tall trees were flanking the road, swaying slightly with the soft, cold breeze.

"Can I have some privacy?" It was almost impossible not to notice the sarcasm in Peter's voice.

Paul let a soulless smile cross his lips. "Don’t blame us for being cautious, Bennett—but of course, you're not a prisoner, yet if you’re planning to flee, let me remind you that you have a wounded leg and the backpack with all the supplies is still in the car."

He could feel Peter's cold blue eyes piercing his like blades, but Paul managed to maintain an almost challenging expression until the man turned to focus his attention on the grove. Then, without a word, he advanced towards the trees, stopping not far from there. Marcus was watching him from a prudent distance.

Paul leaned his back against the car, and for a moment, he was grateful for the break, breathing the icy but refreshing air. A few seconds later, Tyler appeared at his side.

"Why didn’t we stop when he asked for it?" he asked softly.

"If you think Peter's intention simply is to meet a physical need, then I must have overestimated your skills as a scout," Paul replied reluctantly. Tyler looked insecure and surprised by his words. "Tell me, what do you see here?"

Tyler watched the landscape around them. "Apart from trees, you mean?" he answered with obvious cheekiness.

" _Exactly_ , we are in the middle of nowhere, there are no signs or anything else that he can use as reference point—pure and simple logic, Tyler."

Tyler exhaled loudly, closing his eyes as if he were blaming himself mentally for not having thought about something this simple. "Okay, you're right, won’t deny it."

When Tyler returned to the driver's door, Tara approached Paul. Her eyes didn’t leave Tyler until she was face to face with Paul.

"You alright?" Tara's voice sounded surprisingly calm, considering she looked like she wanted to smash something.

"I'm fine." The answer came almost automatically. "You?"

Tara didn’t have time to speak, Peter returned from his adventure behind the bushes with Marcus on his heels. Back in the car, Tara placed the bandana over Peter's eyes again and Tyler started the engine.

The beautiful, desolate landscape that passed by the windows didn’t seem to be enough to distract Paul. Despite his earnest efforts, his mind kept whispering Daryl's name in a hoarse, guttural voice whenever he dared to revive the events of the last forty-eight hours. He wondered where Daryl would be, and whether he would fulfill the agreement they had finally reached the day before, or if that unyielding stubbornness of his would have made him change his mind.

He certainly hadn’t expected to hear from Eduardo that Daryl had gone to the outpost with a group. He didn’t know what to make of all of it, or if he even wanted to read something into it. So he decided to focus on the map, aware that sooner or later they would have no choice but to take the freeway. He knew the roads were relatively clean, because he and Tara had used them on their way back to Hilltop, but still, an open road inevitably meant more danger.

"Oh, fuck…" Tyler cursed and Paul’s head snapped up.

"Shit," Tara exclaimed.

"Everything was too quiet to be true," Marcus pointed out, with no emotion in his voice.

"What is it?" Peter asked.

Walkers blocking the road.

Tyler slowed down until he finally stopped the car a few yards from them. They didn’t appear to be a group of more than ten, but undergrowth and a far-reaching cornfield surrounded the road; it was better not to be overconfident.

"It’s okay, we should be able to—"

"What the hell is going on?!" Peter removed the bandana quickly, interrupting Paul, and before Tara or Marcus could do anything to stop him.

Tyler clicked his tongue, Marcus and Tara swore between their teeth, and Paul simply sighed in resignation.

"As I was saying…" Paul rubbed the bridge of his nose. "We should be able to do this quickly. Tyler, you stay close to the car, as soon as Tara, Marcus, and I clear the road, you'll pass."

He didn’t seem happy to stay there, but Tyler didn’t protest. Marcus and Tara accepted in silence and opened the doors to get out.

"Give me a knife, I can help you," Peter said.

Tara grunted while Tyler and Marcus turned to look at him as if Peter had just confessed that he came from another planet.

"You'll stay in the car," Paul's low, cold voice didn’t leave much room for debate, so the four of them went out without another word.

Tara and Marcus drew their knives and walked forward with determination. Paul glanced behind him, Tyler stood by the driver's door and shook his head in an irritated way when Peter ignored Paul's warning and also got out of the vehicle.

Paul closed his fingers around the handle of his knife, feeling the blood explode in his veins with the speed of a projectile. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to keep walking, get rid of those walkers, and continue the trip, or turn around, grab Peter by the neck, and finish what Daryl had started.

He pressed his lips tightly together, trying to convince himself that this would be over soon and that everything would return to its course again. Everything would be as it had been only a few weeks ago, when nothing outside their own little world had mattered, but the desperate cries of the walkers cut the memory of the idyllic farce short.

Tara and Marcus had finished three of them—firmness, quickness, and a cool mind were all they needed; the broken moans gradually decreased, and while Tara and Marcus killed the remaining ones, Paul dragged the bodies off the road. A few yards away, the car's engine started up again.

"What the—fuck!"

As he turned, Paul saw Tyler sprinting out of the car, his attention on the cornfield where someone was running—and Paul’s breath got stuck in his throat when he realized that it was Peter.

His body started moving before his mind could stop him, before it could yell at him to let him go. What did it matter now? But it did matter after all, so he chased that fool between roots and dry leaves until Peter fell to the ground with a cry of pain. He tried to get up quickly, but was only able to take two clumsy steps before a walker appeared between the corn plants’ tall stems and fell over him. Both landed on the ground with a muffled sound. Peter looked frightened, but moved quickly to catch the walker's neck and avoid those black, threatening teeth, but his fingers trailed through the rotten flesh, sinking into the being’s trachea.

Paul stuck his knife into the walker's temple without losing any second and didn’t even bother to pull the object back again; he pushed the old man aside, grabbed Peter by his jacket and pulled his upper body up.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?!"

Given his physical condition, Peter pushed him away from him with more force than Paul would have expected. Paul stumbled, but managed to keep his balance.

"Don’t touch me!" Peter shouted, still sitting on the floor. "You think I don’t realize what all this looks like? How much longer until you leave me in a forest with a bullet piercing my fucking head?!"

"You think we needed to come out _this_ far to do that? You stupid asshole!"

At first, Peter looked wary, but then he ducked his head, transforming his expression into a strange grimace of shame. "You told him…" Suddenly his voice became a harsh, bitter whisper. "You told _him_."

Paul's stomach lurched with nauseous anger. The damn motherfucker had the audacity to act like the victim right in front of his fucking face. Paul had to think for a second if he had ever seen himself like that after what had happened to him, and he only managed to remember his self-rejection, the guilt, and especially the rage and frustration over his own foolishness. Had the roles of victim and offender switched? He was sure as hell not. So he forced his expression to be a facade of icy stoicism and crouched down so he could stare into the eyes of the man who had been a part of his nightmares for years.

" _What_ did I tell him, Peter? What did I tell him apart from what you _did_?" Nerves, tension, heart pumping out of control—Paul thought he was going to vomit right there, but he managed to hold his ground, blinking only when his eyes could no longer bear it.

"I didn’t want to do it." Now the bastard had the nerve to look tormented. "I didn’t want to. I regretted it, I regretted it every day…"

Paul didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or hit his fucking face to keep him from talking.

"What I said was true," he continued. "Over the years, I wanted to get in touch with you—I just… I… I didn’t have the balls to do it."

"Because you're nothing more than a fucking coward and deceitful whiner who knows perfectly what to do and what to say to get what he wants. But I won’t let you fool me again, Peter. No. You want to leave? Go ahead, run. I won’t do anything to stop you this time—but don’t forget, not for a fucking single second, that if you're still alive, it's thanks to _those_ people on the road."

Paul got back to his feet, his head spinning as he swallowed the nausea that was sore in his throat. He got his knife back and walked a couple of feet away from Peter, whose eyes didn’t leave him, searching for something on his opaque face that he didn’t seem to find.

"You have two minutes to get back to the car." The tone of Paul's voice became as distant and artificial as a robot’s. "If you haven’t returned by then, we'll turn around and leave."

 

***

 

The tension in the car felt like the pressure of water about to burst a dam. Peter had returned to his seat shortly after the rest. The bandana was now resting on the dashboard; Peter had refused to continue wearing it, ensuring that he already knew where they were. Tara had openly shown her displeasure and insisted that it was best to keep it on, but Paul, despite his mistrust, had chosen not to fight. They were far enough from Hilltop already. Yes, it was possible that Peter was only playing with them, _again_ , but the proximity to the freeway didn’t make it impossible for the man to know this road.

After another thirty minutes of traveling, Paul turned in his seat with the map in one hand and a marker in the other. "Point out where your camp is," he said with a masked patience.

Peter's face twisted in confusion, then looked at the other three occupants as if hoping to find some support. Indifference was the only answer he got.

"I'm not going to tell you where my camp is." His voice was louder than usual. "I've been blindfolded for more than half of the trip, and I get it, okay? I don’t blame you for taking precautions, but now it's my turn, and you have to be fucking crazy if you think I'm gonna reveal where we live."

Paul watched him with a mixture of indolence and weariness. He could feel that Tara had her full attention on him; in fact, he could imagine her saying something—instead, she remained silent, as she had done for most of the trip. Something that was totally unusual for her.

"Okay…" Paul replied quietly for a few seconds before turning to look at Tyler. "Stop the car." Tyler's forehead creased, his gaze flickering between the road and him. "Stop the car," he repeated, the tone of his voice becoming surprisingly sharp.

Struggling against his own instinct, Peter shifted uncomfortably in his seat as the vehicle stopped in the middle of the road. Paul turned even further in his seat so he could speak to him as if there was no one else apart from the two of them. "Tell me, do you think you can walk from here?" he asked stiffly.

Again, confused, Peter sought help from the other occupants in the SUV. "Do you want to leave me here?" The concern was evident in his voice.

"Answer the question."

Peter swallowed. "My leg hurts… it could take me one day—maybe more, to get to my camp."

Without a word, Paul dropped the map on Peter's lap and offered him the marker. Peter waited a moment, studying Paul's face, then picked up the colored pen and examined the map before he marked it.

"It's not my camp," he said coldly, when he handed it back to Paul, "but you can leave me there."

Seemingly satisfied, Paul sat back in his seat and motioned for Tyler to continue. And so they did for at least another half-hour where they passed through Wilmington’s environs in an exhausting stillness as they left behind all those skeletons made of concrete that still hid secrets and memories of a past that was beginning to fade with alarming swiftness.

Some breaths of relief could be heard as they crossed the bridge over the Delaware River and were finally able to leave the freeway for a couple of miles until the car stopped again.

They had arrived.

Low clouds of rain threatened to break the truce of the last few hours and a cold, wet breeze was blowing hard as everyone got off the SUV—guns drawn and faces reflecting unashamedly how little they liked the situation.

Paul opened the trunk and handed Peter the backpack they had prepared for him. The man opened it reluctantly and examined it, as if he’d been expecting stones inside. Pleased that it was not the case, he closed it again, holding the only object he had pulled out—the knife.

As if they were not carrying firearms capable of killing Peter as quickly as a wink, Marcus, Tyler, and Tara took a step back, gripping their guns instinctively. Peter seemed not to notice that and placed the knife sheath on the belt of his trousers.

"Well, I suppose it's time to say goodbye," he said, adjusting the backpack on his shoulders. "I wish we'd have met under other circumstances and things would’ve been a bit… different."

Paul would have liked to say that all he wanted was not to have to see his fucking face ever again, but he decided against it. In fact, he struggled to find the right words for this moment when he just wanted to see Peter go away and get lost in the distance. Nothing that was on the tip of his tongue seemed neutral or natural enough to say; in the end it was Peter who spoke again, "Thank you for saving my life," he said in a hushed tone, and without wasting any more time, he turned around and began to walk away from them.

They waited, planted as if their legs were fixed on the pavement, until Peter was no more than a dot on the horizon. Tara, Marcus, and Tyler moved to get back in the car and get out of there, but they stopped short when they saw that Paul was opening the trunk and pulling out the other backpack.

"I knew it," Tara snapped in a low voice, slamming the back door shut. "What the hell do you think you're doing? Are you fucking crazy?"

"I have to do this," Paul said indifferently.

"Are you going to follow him?" Tyler asked suspiciously.

Marcus snorted, running his fingers through his long, wavy hair. "The order was to bring him back before nightfall. This… this is not right."

"Don’t worry about Maggie, I'll talk to her when I… when I come back." Paul spoke calmly as he checked—though he had already done it three times back in the trailer—that he had everything he needed in the backpack.

"Shit, _you_ are the one I’m worried about." The firmness in Tara's voice was replaced by an obvious exasperation. "How do you plan on returning?"

"I'll find a way, Tara, I always do."

"This is not necessary." Before Paul could reply, Tara raised a hand. "No, it's not. Maggie's right, maybe we are overreacting, maybe we'll never hear from Peter and his people ever again. We should turn around now and ignore that all this shit has happened. Jesus—"

"Man, she's right." Tyler stepped forward. "They don’t seem like a real threat, at least not for us in our own territory. If they come, we’ll face them, we are ready."

"Ready for what?" Paul asked impatiently. "We're coming to conclusions based on what he told us. I'm not going back to Hilltop until I see that he's telling the truth with my own eyes."

"Then I'll go with you," Tara said.

"Me too," Tyler added.

The two sounded determined, but Marcus looked as if he was about to throw up.

"No. You're going to take the car and do what Maggie ordered. This is my responsibility, and I'll take care of it."

Tara walked over to him, placing a cautious hand on his arm. "Jesus, I was there too," she said softly. "It was _our_ decision—"

"Tara you don’t understand—"

"I understand it! I know there's something from the past tormenting you. I—I just want to help you."

"Then _help_ me. Get in the damn car and go back to Hilltop."

"Okay, let's make a decision," Tyler said firmly. "Whether we stay or leave, we're wasting a lot of time."

"The decision’s been made." Paul put the backpack on and began to walk. "Tell Maggie not to worry too much, okay?"

"He's coming too, isn’t he?" Paul stopped when Tara asked the question. "Daryl…"

"Honestly… I have no idea." Resentment was evident in his voice, but he still managed to offer them one of his reassuring smiles. "Check the map, there are a couple of roads you can explore before heading back to Hilltop."

Paul started to walk again without waiting for an answer. A few minutes later, he heard the SUV’s engine. He sighed, but didn’t look back. He continued along the road until he decided to walk in parallel through the surrounding forest. It didn’t seem to be an extensively wooded land, though; in fact, he found areas where he had no choice but to walk through open field, using the thick bushes to try to go unnoticed.

He studied and memorized everything in his path. Except for a few industrial buildings and isolated houses, it didn’t seem to have been a busy area in the past, which was a good thing for him now, since the chances of meeting other people were smaller. But this also meant that part of what Peter had told them was true—there weren’t many useful resources around, at least not for the moment.

Finding Peter didn’t take him long, and he was surprised to find him still walking down the road. Despite his obvious physical limitations—he hobbled more than he had when he had left them—Peter moved with the confidence of someone knowing that no enemy is going to cross his path. Paul followed closely; keeping enough distance from him so that no unforeseen noise from the underbrush he stepped on could catch his attention.

He met with some walkers; a few that Paul decided to dodge, because killing them would be a stupid way of making his presence noticed. Peter also had a couple of encounters with the walking dead, and Paul didn’t miss the opportunity to analyze how he reacted. Observing a person fighting could reveal a lot about them, and Peter surprised him. After walking for almost an hour with a deep leg wound, Peter moved quickly and accurately, he didn’t lose more than five seconds with each of the walkers, whom he killed and took out of his way easily.

Was he surprised, though? How much effort had it taken Peter to have his head buried into the upholstery of his car twenty years ago? He was still the same manipulative bastard he had been back then.

The rain began to fall shortly afterwards, but that didn’t bother any of them and they continued the route for at least an hour and a half more. Nevertheless, the humidity and the cold began to have an impact on Peter’s physical state, because he needed to stop to rest much more frequently.

Paul didn’t feel much better either, walking on that rough ground and under those conditions was fatiguing his muscles much more quickly than he would have liked, and for a moment, Paul lost all notion of time. Perhaps they had continued walking through no man's land for about another hour, he couldn’t tell, but then Paul noticed the change in Peter's posture—languid and succumbed to tiredness until that point, but he suddenly straightened his back, as if he had seen something. Then began to walk more lightly, making his limp even more noticeable. Paul tried to get as close as he could to try to figure out what had caught Bennett's attention.

And then he saw the walls.

They reminded him of Alexandria, built with all kinds of metal sheets. The place seemed much bigger than he had expected, although from there he didn’t have a perfect view of the camp.

Crouched among fronds that grew uncontrollably, Paul watched and waited until someone opened the gates and Peter disappeared behind them. He moved quickly then, but he could barely see beyond the walls, just an old sign that read _Four Seasons Campground_. An old campsite, Paul had to admit that it was not a bad idea; they probably already had solar panels before the disaster, as well as toilets, dining areas, trailers, and cabins.

The rain began to fall harder; he had to find a place where he could watch the camp before nightfall. He walked away, blaming himself for the tracks he was leaving on the muddy ground, and praying for the rain to erase them before dawn.

Only a mile away, he found an old factory which tall silos were suitable enough to observe the settlement. Paul clutched the aluminum steps and climbed to the top, struggling against the heavy drops. Once up there, he took out the binoculars he had brought with him. Peter's camp was definitely bigger than he had imagined, though he couldn’t figure out how many people could be living there. All he could see were a few trailers and a couple of old buildings; the rest was hidden under trees that covered most of the area.

"Shit…" he murmured. He would need to get closer; unfortunately, he would have to wait for the next day.

He threw his head back and let the water hit his face for a second, as if that might help him to think clearly, but he only felt his muscles numb to the point of pain. He had to find a place where he could get warm, and he had to do it soon. Maybe it was because of the black clouds moving on the horizon, but Paul had the feeling that it was getting dark too quickly.

However, he didn’t move from there, as if petrified, because he suddenly had the feeling of being watched. He looked around. He hadn’t seen anyone leave Peter's camp, but it didn’t mean that they couldn’t have been out there before they had arrived. He had been so intent on following the other man that he had forgotten the possibility that someone else might have been stalking them.

He took the stairs and returned to solid ground. He glanced around, but the rain was forming a film of water, dripping through his eyelashes, barely letting him see a thing. Leaving the backpack under one of the silos, he drew one of his knives and approached the long building behind them. He walked carefully, listening intently, though the only thing he could hear was the tingling of drops beating the metal. He scouted a part of the outer wall until he reached one of the corners and took a tentative look. Everything seemed calm, but the darkness didn’t allow him to feel confident enough about it.

The feeling became a certainty as he advanced, and he knew that it couldn’t be a walker, because its snarls would have been heard by now. His heart was beating loudly, pumping blood against his ears. Paul could barely hear anything, and his mind was beginning to cloud at times.

Then he heard it, the gravel creaking. It had been such a soft sound that he wasn’t sure if he’d imagined it, but the hair on the back of his neck told him it was there—someone of flesh and blood.

Paul could see his heavy breathing floating in the air. His fingers tightened around the knife's handle, though they ached from the cold. His soaked clothes pulled him down like an extra weight, making it difficult to walk. His steps became clumsy, almost impossible to control and his body began to shiver in a final attempt to keep him warm.

He narrowed his eyes. The night had fallen so fast that he’d scarcely noticed it, and yet his body stiffened when he saw a shadow not far from where he was. Paul waited. Maybe it was just an object, a machine of the many he had seen abandoned there. Maybe his mind was just playing tricks on him. But then it moved, and for a moment, the shadow stopped when it noticed his presence. They looked at each other without really seeing anything, only two faceless silhouettes.

Then, without warning, the thin and small figure began to run. Paul didn’t think twice and ran after them, if he was quick enough, he could reach whoever it was before they could react and attack him. But his muscles didn’t respond as he would have liked and he thought his bones would break in one of those movements. The air didn’t seem to reach his lungs either; he could feel his heavy breathing pounding in his ears. He also felt mud and stones stuck to his knees the next moment. Fuck, he had fallen to the ground just at the same time he heard a groan of pain not far from there.

Paul tried to retrieve the knife that had slipped from his fingers quickly, but someone kicked it away. A second later, boots appeared in front of him. His heart pummeled against his ribcage like a crazed bird. Paul braced himself and with effort straightened his back, cocking his head to take a look at his attacker. He blinked several times, partly because of the steady fall of the rain, and partly because he wasn’t sure of what he was seeing. But he was not imagining it. He took a quick, dazed breath and then let it out again. Paul would never have imagined feeling such relief to have a crossbow pointed straight at his face.


	12. 10

3 MONTHS AGO.

 

"What?" Daryl protested.

"What, what?" Paul asked.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"And how am I supposed to be looking at you, exactly?" Not even his innocent voice could conceal the malicious grin that tugged at Paul's lips.

"Like… you don’t stop starin’ at me."

"I just took a moment to admire my handsome boyfriend. What's wrong with that?"

Daryl let out an exasperated growl, pulling Sirius’ reins for the horse to stand still.

"Look at you," Paul added amused. "You're blushing."

"Fuck off, Monroe. It's this damned heat." Grunting, he ran a handkerchief across his forehead to wipe away the sweat.

"I wish I had a camera right now."

"You can ask Aaron."

"Oh, believe me, I will—seriously, I don’t understand why you take compliments so badly."

"Maybe ‘cause I don’t need them."

"Everybody needs to get their ego stroked every now and then and you're not an exception. You're a good person, but sometimes it seems like you’re actually trying to convince yourself otherwise."

"Whatever," Daryl grumbled. "I think we're lost."

Paul looked around at the thick forest that barely let the sun’s warm rays of a typical August day through. Still, the humidity exuding from the ground made the wind-chill under the protective shade of the trees almost unbearable.

"This was an old reserve, but I think that there were several research centers besides some marked routes, we just have to try to find one. If not, we can always let the horses guide us, they’ll know where to go." Paul tenderly stroked Dama's soft neck.

"If you say so..."

The journey continued for a couple of miles until the terrain began to grow more mud-stained and the trees separated from each other, revealing the intimidating blue sky above their heads. They reached a clearing where the marsh vegetation ruled every corner, sticking out over the water that was hidden under those skirts of such an intense green color that it looked unreal. Around them, the forest remained as compact and beautifully threatening.

"Wow, this is beautiful."

Daryl advanced forward with Sirius with the same fascinated expression fixed on his face. The horse, however, didn’t seem to share their enthusiasm and neighed, taking a few steps back.

"Be careful," Paul warned. "This is a wetland and the vegetation is too thick—it’s not easy to tell land and water apart."

"Let's get out of here."

They surrounded the clearing to the row of trees that rose to their right with caution and silence, allowing themselves to be impregnated by the song of the birds and the placid sound of an immutable nature, impassive to what had happened to that parasitic race that was the human being.

"Look at that," Daryl said suddenly, pointing to the grove.

On the other side, visible between the trunks, was another clearing, this one of firm ground and much larger than the one they were in. Paul couldn’t be certain, but from there he counted four small buildings scattered along the place.

"Let's see what’s in there."

They set off without further words, but only managed to move a few yards when suddenly the horses began to get nervous, protesting and gasping uneasily. The two men tried to calm them, but Dama and Sirius moved backwards into the quagmire.

"Dama, come on… come on, calm down."

However, the marshy ground only managed to make the horses even more anxious when they felt their legs bury, getting trapped in the mud.

"Fuck—Sirius, stop!"

"Get off the horse, Daryl!"

Daryl jumped off the horse immediately; Paul tried to do the same, but Dama continued stepping back and suddenly, out of nowhere, as if it had been trapped forever in the moving ground, waiting for the time and the weather harshness to consume it completely, a walker appeared sitting up between the tangle of reeds. The tormented cries echoed in that lost oasis while the creature stretched its arms in despair, and though it couldn’t move, it was close, too close. The birds flew in a flock from the tops of the trees and Dama whinnied in alarm, standing up on her hind legs. Paul grabbed the reins in a vague attempt to control the mare, but eventually lost the grip and fell backwards.

"Paul!"

The malleability of the mud, engulfing him in a macabre embrace, and the hardness of branches and a big pointed stone found his back as soon as he hit the ground. The water wasn’t deep, but enough to soak him completely. With a growl that might have expressed consternation, rage, and fear at the same time, Paul tried to get up quickly, but Dama was about to trample on him when she ran away from there. The walker, a woman whose wet black hair covered her face, grabbed his leg. Paul fought to get away from the rough touch while Daryl was struggling to bring Sirius under control a few feet away.

Paul looked for one of his knives, but everything around him began to grow tumultuous. The water shook with rage near him, and within seconds, Sirius also ran past him, hurrying toward the forest. With no time to think about the whereabouts of the animals, Paul's attention returned to the walker whose sharp nails pierced the fabric of his trousers, reaching his skin. It felt like the tip of a knife—his, however, seemed to be stuck to the damn sling after the fall.

It felt like hours until he managed to pull the knife out, and yet, the screams ceased before he could even move to kill it. With a strangled groan, the walker fell back into the water. Paul blinked repeatedly as the water’s waves shook in circles around him until it finally calmed down. Then, only a single arrow could be seen over the surface and silence fell all over again, as if nothing had happened at all.

Without a moment to recover his breath, the water stirred around him again when Daryl appeared kneeling beside him. "You alright?" he asked quickly, though Daryl didn’t wait for any response before he started to touch and check him.

"Dama…" was the only thing Paul managed to articulate.

"I know…"

Paul looked around for a moment, ignoring Daryl's presence. "Sirius ran off, too."

"Yeah, I had to let him go, come—"

"We have to go get them, we can’t—"

"First let me check that you're okay."

"I'm fine."

"Paul—"

"I'm fine!" he insisted, urgently.

Daryl grabbed his face with both hands and pulled away some of the soaked, muddy strands of hair clinging to his face.

"I'm fine," Paul repeated again, this time in barely a whisper.

 

***

 

It took them almost an hour to find the horses. They had stopped near a stream, Dama’s reins were entangled in some branches. Sirius was by her side, like he was ensuring the safety of his companion.

Paul and Daryl approached carefully, so as not to frighten them. From there, crouched behind tree trunks, Paul saw where the blood trail they had been following came from. The hair from Dama's left hind leg, usually white and soft, looked sticky and dyed in a reddish-black color now. Paul didn’t want to think too much about it; in fact, he tried to convince himself immediately that the walker hadn’t been close enough to being able to attack her. He couldn’t be so sure, though, since he could scarcely remember the moment when he’d fallen off her back. ~~~~

It was only a cut in the end, he noticed later, after they finally had found shelter for the night in one of those abandoned buildings that had worked as research centers not that long ago. Paul had cleaned the wound and the relief had almost made him cry.

"You scared the hell out of me," he said, heart still pounding a bit too fast for comfort.

Dama snorted in response, perhaps apologizing or secretly calling him an idiot for daring to doubt her. Paul couldn’t stop caressing her, he even thought about spending the night there to ensure that nothing else would happen to her. It was a stupid idea, he was aware of it, but his stomach still felt hollow.

"She'll be fine," Daryl said behind him.

"I know," he answered, though there was no convincement in his voice. "Where’s Sirius?"

"In the next garage. Come on, I've found food cans in one of the buildings."

"One of these days we’ll end up poisoned."

The building Daryl had taken him to was bigger than it had looked from the outside. Inside, they found a lot of different rooms, classrooms, study and research areas, a large dining room, and some rooms with the basic amenities to spend the night shifts. Daryl had assured that the walkers he’d found in there hadn’t been a problem and that the building was completely safe now.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

His confidence was strong, so Paul didn’t press any further. Shortly after, they were eating one of the cans that Daryl had found in one of the rooms.

The night fell fast, and over the black and starry sky, a huge full moon rose, illuminating the reserve with its silver colors. It was a spectacular view of what the world was now, but Paul's eyes didn’t seem to be able to move away from where the horses were located—safely in two storage garages.

A hand on his shoulder forced Paul to return to the room. It was big enough, though it only had a couple of bookshelves, a desk, and four metal bunk beds.

"Does it hurt?" Daryl's hoarse voice broke the silence as he moved his hand down Paul's back.

Yes, it did, it had been an unfavorable fall and he had been lucky that he’d landed on rather soft ground if you didn’t count the stone and the branches. He had examined his back in one of the bathrooms and he’d seen some cuts and bruises. He also had red marks on his leg where the walker had clung its nails desperately into his skin—he could still feel it burning.

"Not really."

"You sure? Was a rough fall." Daryl pressed the muscles of his back with his fingers and Paul had to squeeze his lips together to suppress a groan, who knew whether if of pain or pleasure.

"Okay, yeah… maybe it hurts a little."

He could feel the warmth of Daryl's body against him, his breath on his cheek.

"You scared the fuck out of me," he said in a husky whisper.

"Actually, nearly pissed my pants myself."

Daryl's laughter filled the walls—it was a nice sound, even though Paul was not used to that kind of sincerity. After all, and although he didn’t show it as openly as Daryl did, he also had an ego to feed. But his mind was wandering somewhere else at that moment, and _God_ knows that if it weren’t for the fact that they were miles away from a safe place, the two of them would probably already have their pants down.

Daryl brushed Paul's hair aside, giving him free access to his neck, his lips caressing soft skin a few seconds later. Paul tried to tame his response and regain some self-control, but his breathing quickened when Daryl wrapped his arms around him and pulled him closer.

"Was there something in your food?" Paul had tried to use a composed tone without much success.

Daryl didn’t seem to listen to him—he didn’t stop kissing his neck and every inch of visible skin he found within his reach. Then, he forced Paul to turn his head to kiss him. Paul smiled against his lips.

"Daryl…" Paul wanted to sound serious, but the words still came out humming. "You know we can’t do it here."

"Why not?" Daryl's voice sounded so grave that it vibrated through him.

With more effort than he thought necessary, Paul pulled back to face Daryl—still pressed against each other. Perhaps his mind was appealing to his reason, but there was no doubt that his body wasn’t listening to any of his demands.

"Because we aren’t prepared, and because I’m not so sure if your intention is to end with _your_ head pressed against one of those mattresses. We’ll be on horseback tomorrow and I am convinced that, if it could, my ass would also have something to say about this."

"Nah, doesn’t have to be that way."

Paul couldn’t help but laugh. "Can you imagine how ridiculous it would be if we had to run away with our pants around our ankles?"

"There’s an easy solution to that." Daryl leaned in and caught his mouth again. Surprisingly—and despite his apparent and uncontrollable urgency—it was a slow kiss.

"Okay, okay…" Paul could barely breathe, but from somehow he found the strength to pull Daryl away from him. " _Hell_ , how I wish we were at home right now—better to stop before I lose any restraint I have left."

"It's your damn fault that we always end up lost in the middle of nowhere." He didn’t sound as frustrated as Paul would have expected; and even if he’d actually blamed him for it, his own crotch would have agreed. Daryl just frowned and sighed slightly. "Go to sleep, I’ll keep watch."

This used to be one of their main arguments when they were out, because, _of course_ , Daryl always offered himself to do the hard work first, and that unconscious macho behavior always managed to irritate him exceedingly. This time though, he didn’t protest, his back was hurting like hell and lying down for a while didn’t sound like a bad idea at all.

Before he could turn and approach one of the ugly bunks, Daryl caught his wrist and held him back. His expression had gone from uncontrollable desire to deep concern.

"I meant it, you scared me today." Daryl slumped onto the windowsill without letting go of his hand—the moon drawing white lines on his face.

Paul reached out and stroked his cheek. "Hey…" He couldn’t deny that he too had felt like that for a moment, or two—or maybe three. It was unbelievable how easily they could forget that death was awaiting them behind every corner. Still, he didn’t want to show that fear, not in front of Daryl. So he just smiled, one of those calming smiles he was so used to give. "No drama, okay? It was just a little accident… we're here, we're fine."

Daryl closed his eyes.

"Daryl, we _are_ fine."

"Yeah, yeah… we're fine."

 

* * *

 

 

TODAY.

 

Paul couldn’t look away from the unconscious boy lying on the pile of blankets they had laid on the floor while Daryl kept moving around the basement, searching through boxes and shelves.

"Don’t touch him." Daryl's rough voice surprised Paul, his trembling hand stopped abruptly, close enough to the stranger's forehead.

"He's just a kid," Paul hissed in protest.

"He didn’t look like it when he ran around with an ax in his hand in the middle of the night. This damn place is a fuckin’ mess."

"It doesn’t even look like he's breathing."

"He's fine—for fuck’s sake, Paul. C’mon you need to change your clothes."

"There’s blood on his face!"

"We'll take care of him later, first your fuckin’ clothes."

When Paul turned around, irritated, Daryl was in the center of the basement, holding a camping stove, then he started walking up the stairs and Paul followed him without taking his eyes off the boy.

Once on the first floor, they walked down the narrow corridor to the living room that connected to the kitchen. There was a stone fireplace and he would have wished to turn it on and feel the heat of the fire on his stiff skin, but the risk of someone seeing the smoke was too high. With fingers that barely responded to his pleas, Paul began to get rid of his cold, soaked clothes. Daryl had disappeared again, he supposed he was in one of the bedrooms—he could hear him opening drawers and closets while spitting a rosary of blasphemies.

It took Paul more time than necessary to get undressed, his body kept shivering as his mind tried to make a precise review of what had happened—the shadow he’d seen in the darkness, and the fact that not one, but two people had been watching him.

His stomach twisted.                    

What could happen if there were more people out there? He shook his head immediately, protesting against his own thoughts. He couldn’t believe he had been so distracted that he hadn‘t noticed something like that. The boy had been easy to spot in the end, and he’d probably met Daryl in his failed attempt to escape. Paul couldn’t be sure of that, but it sounded feasible.

Daryl hadn’t said a single word during the time it had taken them to get to the house, and Paul was not sure how long that had been, or even how they had been able to walk that distance, carrying a limp body. He wondered if Daryl had located the house on his way, or whether they simply had been lucky.

He was still unbuttoning his pants when Daryl appeared again, throwing a pile of clothes on the large couch. If it had been possible, Paul would have imagined him breathing fire through his nostrils.

"Can you… can you calm down, please?" Paul tried his usually collected tone, but his voice was shaking almost as much as his whole body.

"Don’t ask me to calm down. Don’t fuckin’ dare to ask me to calm down." Daryl took off his jacket and the three layers of shirts he seemed to be wearing, then rummaged through the tangle of clothes, tossing some of the garments in Paul’s direction.

"The situation is already fucked up enough as it is, and you’re not really helping, acting like that." Paul grabbed the first sweater and trousers he found, and started dressing again. The clothes were too big for him, but the dry wool felt good on his cold skin.

"Ain’t my fault that we— _again—_ are lost in the middle of fuckin’ nowhere."

"You shouldn’t have been here in the first place! I didn’t ask you to come!" His harsh tone surprised them both. Paul paused and drew a deep breath, trying to regain some self-control. "We had an agreement."

Paul was not sure how or when it had happened, but Daryl was suddenly only a foot away from him. He could feel his hot agitated breath on his cheeks when he said, "You’re an idiot if you really thought I was gonna sit idly by."

"I didn’t ask you to stay there doing nothing. You should’ve stayed at Hilltop to wait for the others and plan whatever was necessary if things didn’t go as planned." Which meant preparing Hilltop for what might come, in case he didn’t return and everything got even worse. "You had to talk to Maggie, make sure she understood what we were doing, and make sure that Gregory didn’t—"

"Maggie can take care of herself."

"So can I!" The frustration was putting a dent in Paul’s nerves, and he was too annoyed to be able to control it.

"Really? Well, didn’t look like it at the factory." The venom in Daryl's voice almost made Paul’s ears bleed.

"I would’ve managed, I always do. Have always done. I haven’t been hiding under a damn rock all these fucking years, waiting for _you_ to show up, Daryl. I didn’t need you back then and I don’t—"

The shock on Daryl's face even managed to dodge the darkness that otherwise reigned in the room. Paul stepped back, his body shivering uncontrollably which had nothing to do with the chilly environment that embraced them this time.

"I…"

But there were no words—the chatterbox already had said enough. He’d been unexpectedly ruthless, he knew that, and he could say he was sorry, but it was too late; nothing he would say now would improve the situation. _Hell_ , when had things turned out to be like this between them? One day they had been a happy, almost normal couple, and now, they didn’t miss any chance to throw all the knives they had at hand at each other.

Paul's lips worked for a moment, but there was no sound—then, and before he could finally say a word, Daryl walked toward the corridor. "Gonna check on the kid."

 

***

 

It wasn’t easy to focus on anything he was doing, but Paul at least tried, for his own and Daryl's sake—and before they finally ended up killing each other. He rummaged through the house, covered the windows with sheets, and lit a pair of candles he had found in the drawers of a cupboard in the living room alongside a few blankets. He used the camping stove to heat an old Italian coffeepot with water and coffee. The gas hadn’t lasted long, but at least it had done it long enough to let them have a hot drink. He needed it, and Daryl did too.

He could feel his stomach tensing, and he would be lying if he said he wasn’t concerned about their relationship, which was rather stupid, considering where they were and what they were doing. Daryl was usually confrontational though, and if there was a problem, he would throw himself against it until he got it fixed, or at least until it stopped bothering him enough to waste more time thinking about it. This time however, it had been him who had decided to abandon the argument and get away from the problem—and from him—and that had baffled Paul completely.

Paul draped a moldy smelling blanket over his shoulders and sat down on one of the armchairs he had set near the window. Then he pulled the curtain aside slightly so he could peer outside, it had begun to snow again, he didn’t know for how long, but the ground already presented a thin, white mantle.

He thought of the boy in the basement, he couldn’t be more than eleven or twelve years old. Paul had seen the guilt in Daryl‘s eyes when he’d realized that he had knocked a kid out, but there hadn’t been time to lose, so they’d grabbed him and ended up in this house. They had briefly discussed where to leave him, he would have been more comfortable in one of the rooms, lying on a bed, but he could have escaped through one of the windows, so they had finally opted for the basement.

A few minutes passed until Paul heard the wood creaking and Daryl appeared soon after. He stopped at the entrance to the living room, scanning the room until he located him. Only the flickering candlelight was enough to see the annoyance in his eyes, but that aside, his expression lacked any emotion.

"How is he?"

Daryl didn’t answer immediately, instead he began to move around the room, apparently looking for something, but Paul suspected that it was only a distraction technique, probably to contain all the shit he wanted to spit but struggled to hold back. Finally, he sank down on the large couch with an irritated sigh, placing his dirty boots on the coffee table, the mud staining everything.

Was he trying to provoke him? Maybe. Paul almost laughed.

"He's still asleep," he replied. "Or pretending to be, ain’t sure. You should go down to check, _you're_ the expert."

Provoking, definitely.

At least this was better than not speaking at all and Paul wasn’t going to let this get to him. He knew Daryl better than all this shit that was going on between them, or at least that's what he wanted to believe. So he got up and took the mug he had prepared for him.

"Here, I've made some of the _best_ coffee I've ever had. I think it's already cold, though, and the gas is gone too." He put the mug on the table with more force than necessary, coffee spilling on the wooden surface.

Paul sat down by the window again and silence fell heavy and cold as a marble rock. Outside it was snowing hard—apparently nothing could go right for them, and the last thing they needed was to get trapped in this house, miles away from their home, not far from a camp full of strangers—probably armed—and a wounded and unconscious boy in the basement, that someone, sooner or later, would be missing. And yet, that wasn’t what stirred Paul's guts. No. It was having Daryl right there and not being able to look him in the face. It was his inability to communicate with the most important person in his life, feeling as if they were miles apart when in fact they were so close.

"We're back at the beginnin’," Daryl's unexpected hoarse voice surprised Paul so much that he shifted abruptly in his seat. Daryl's gaze, however, was elsewhere. "Locked up in a house, away from our home, with people who can hurt us, possibly track us and… and we hatin’ each other."

"I don’t hate you." The answer was immediate, and then he closed his eyes and breathed in the cold, humid air. "I… I’m sorry for what I said… I didn’t mean it like that."

"But it’s still what you think."

"Yes..."

"Do you think I treat you differently from others?"

"You do, in many ways… and I understand—partly. I just wish you’d trust me more."

"I do."

"You worry _too_ much."

"How can I not? Look where we are! Do you think I could’ve stayed at Hilltop, not knowin’ where the hell you were, or if you’re okay?"

"I didn’t expect you to do it if I’m honest, but I hoped you would at least _try_." It was just a whisper, but his tone was hard. "But you're right, this place is dangerous—not a good time to discuss trifles."

"When's ever gonna be a good time?"

"When all of this is over."

"This shit will never—"

"It will."

"We're _fucked_. What the hell are we gonna do with him, we can’t just let him go. When the boy goes back and talks, how long do you think it’ll take the bastard to realize that it was us?"

Paul had been thinking about it too; it was like reviving Peter's situation all over again. Only this time, the motives and circumstances were completely different.

"It won’t be a problem," Paul said. Daryl snorted, shaking his head. "Listen, Peter can be a lot of things, but he's not stupid, I'd be surprised if he didn’t suspect already that the plan, besides bringing him back, was to explore the area. The boy going back, telling them everything would only confirm his suspicions, nothing else. We just have to be careful, make sure the boy goes back to the camp safe and sound—show them that we are not a threat to them. In the meantime, _he_ ," Paul said pointing toward the corridor, "he will be our source of information. If you know how to read people to get information, it’s easy to guess if an adult is lying—it’s even easier with a child. We'll talk to him and find out if Peter has told us the truth, and then… then we can go home."

There was a moment of silence. Paul had turned his attention to the window, though he knew Daryl had his blue eyes fixed on him. "Have you done it before? In the past, have you interrogated children?"

He had—in fact, he had done a lot of things in the past, and he had seen a lot more being done. Things you simply cannot talk about at a dinner party with friends when someone asks about the job. You just put on a fake smile and pretend being someone else doing something else.

"Maybe."

The lack of emotion in his voice was enough to cut the conversation short. Nothing else was said or heard for at least an hour or two, although this time, the silence was, in a strange way, comforting. Paul didn’t move from the window, scanning the darkness that was only disturbed by the worrisome snowflakes that didn’t stop bathing the surface with layers and layers of white. For his part, Daryl was still sitting on the couch, he had barely moved, still as a stick, he… he was just there.

Paul's body reacted abruptly when Daryl jumped from the couch moments later. Paul watched him, confused—then he heard it. It was a weak sound, but it clearly came from the basement. In just a few seconds, and with one of the candles in hand, the two were in front of the door that led to the stairs.

"There’s a first-aid kit in my backpack, could you go get it?" Daryl opened his mouth, ready to protest, but then his lips pressed together again. Who knows if moved by the authoritarian tone in Paul's voice or because of the conversation they’d had before, but he turned and walked back into the living room.

Paul opened the door and went down the stairs carefully. The candle barely let him see more than a few feet ahead of him, but halfway down he could see that the boy was not in the nest of blankets they had accommodated for him. Paul quickly scanned the space, a shadow moved to his right, blocking the dim light coming through one of the tiny windows. Paul descended the stairs as fast as he could then, knocking down some boxes and objects in his way, but he hardly had time to react—the tip of a shovel missed his face by a few inches when he reached the bottom and turned to face the boy.

"All right, all right." Paul raised his hands in the air, still holding the candle. He could see the boy perfectly, his face drawing out through lights and shadows. His eyes glittered with anger, but above all fear. "It’s oka—"

A sudden sound coming from the stairs caught their attention, and Daryl materialized a second later at the bottom of the stairs, crossbow glued to his shoulder and ready to fire.

"No!" Paul warned.

"Drop that, boy." His voice was calm but menacing.

The boy hesitated, looking between them, bewildered and dazed. "What do you want? Who are you?"

Paul took a step forward. "We don’t want to harm you, we don’t—"

"You hit me!"

"That was an unfortunate misunderstanding."

"Drop the damn shovel," Daryl growled.

"Are you crazy? You have a fucking crossbow pointed at my face!"

"Listen," Paul interrupted, setting the candle on the nearest surface he found, then he showed him his clothes. "I'm not armed, and he'll put the crossbow down as soon as you put the shovel on the floor. I know you feel confused, but we don’t want to harm you—you're hurt, we just want to make sure you're okay."

Paul nodded at Daryl, and after a few reluctant seconds, he lowered the weapon. Something like relief washed over the boy's pale face, but he didn’t move. "Who are you?"

"Let's sit down so we can talk calmly. Does the wound hurt?"

"I'm fine," he spoke almost instinctively, but from the way he frowned, Paul was almost convinced he was suffering a headache.

Daryl descended the remaining steps, silently offering Paul a small white first-aid kit. The boy stepped back immediately, watching them closely. Paul opened the bag and showed it to him. "We just want to help you." The boy's lips parted, but no sound came out. "Are you hungry? I bet you’re at least thirsty."

Again, Paul looked at Daryl who automatically turned and went upstairs. His footsteps on the upper floor could be heard from there. When Paul turned to the boy, he had already put the shovel on the floor.

"Why don’t you sit down, you look tired."

For once, the boy didn’t resist, and although he didn’t lose sight of Paul while he moved around looking for something to sit on, he dropped himself on the blankets with a deep, and probably involuntary, sigh.

Paul picked up a box that seemed solid enough to hold his weight and sat down in front of him, examining him carefully under the candlelight. He definitely couldn’t be older than twelve, he was not very tall and his childish features revealed his young age. His little face was dotted with freckles that contrasted with his thin white skin and the furry tangle of red hair. He was thin, he could be agile but it was obvious he didn’t have the strength to hold a fight. At the top of his left cheek was the wound that Daryl had caused him during their encounter. It wasn’t bleeding anymore, but there was dried blood all around it.

"Are you okay?" Paul asked, his voice soft.

There was an obvious internal struggle in the child, not wanting to show any sign of weakness, but he finally gave up. "My head hurts."

"I'm sorry about that. We'll take a look at the wound later, but we need to talk first."

The steps creaked again and Daryl appeared shortly afterwards with a bottle of water. Paul let it be him who offered it to the boy, who took it after a moment of wariness. He took a small sip that seemed to be enough to soften the dryness of his throat, and then emptied the rest of it in one gulp.

"Are you feeling any better?"

The boy shrugged slightly.

"What’s your name?" Paul asked, as Daryl positioned himself leaning against a shelf, to the boy's right.

"Who are you?" was his answer, and Paul couldn’t blame him for being suspicious.

"We’re traders." That brought confusion not only to the boy’s face, but also Daryl’s. Still, he remained silent, watching and listening intently. "Why were you spying on us?"

The question surprised the boy who didn’t bother to hide his annoyance. " _You_ were spying on us."

Paul pretended to ponder the accusation for a moment. "That’s true… oh, well, I guess we have to explain some things here, er… what did you say was your name again?"

"I didn’t." The boy was smart, but his eyes didn’t hide his innocence. Paul waited patiently. "My name’s Evan."

Paul smiled slightly, even if there was a part of him that couldn’t help but feel bad for doing what he was doing.

"Evan… look, we're sorry we met under these circumstances. My name is Paul and this is Daryl."

Daryl shifted uneasily, clearly uncomfortable by the revelation, but Paul knew that Peter would only need a brief description to be able to identify them. It was not worth the effort, and he didn’t want to lie to the boy any more than was strictly necessary. Meanwhile, Evan didn’t seem quite sure what to do with the information, but his shoulders relaxed a little. Paul let him settle in, giving him his space so that he would lead the conversation.

"What are you doing here?" Evan asked a moment later.

"We’ve heard that there are some communities not far from here, we intend to do business with them. We didn’t expect to find your camp on our way, so we were just checking if it was abandoned or not."

Evan chewed on his words for a few seconds. "What kind of business?"

Well, he didn’t deny the existence of the other communities, which was a start.

"Exchange of resources. You know, things they can spare in exchange for things they might need. Are there many people at your camp?"

"And in yours?"

Paul drew a smile; the boy was trying hard to show himself in control of the conversation, and that, somehow, warmed his heart. "We have a lot of people." This put an ounce of tension on Evan's face again. "And we have a lot of ammunition, which is good for defense, but not so much to put food in your stomach, and that is our main priority. Do you have ammunition, Evan?"

"Plenty." The answer was automatic, spat without thinking, which meant that the boy wanted to make it clear that his people were prepared to defend themselves if necessary—the sudden itching in his left arm revealed quite the opposite, though.

Paul glanced at Daryl who was glued to his place like a wax figure, his expression unreadable. "Oh well… and what about food, do you have food? Do you grow?"

Evan frowned even more, thoughtfully, probably wondering if it was worth making up something about the food, or whether two straight lies were too many to keep for a long time. His shoulders dropped, exhausted. "We… we don’t have much food," his voice trailed off in a whisper, and as if the mere mention of food was enough, his stomach growled in response.

Daryl shifted.

"That's a pity."

Yes, it was because it meant that Peter had told them the truth. He should feel relieved, but in fact, he felt a hint of disappointment. He supposed that there was a part of him that had been desperately seeking for an excuse to justify the treatment Peter had received, to justify what Daryl had done to him and what he had imagined himself doing on more than one occasion. Now, he couldn’t help but think that twenty years were a long time after all.

Evan's stomach protested again and the boy rested a hand over it as if to stop it from betraying him.

"Does your head still hurt?" Paul asked softly. Evan nodded. He definitely looked tired. "Do you want to go upstairs? I won’t promise it will be warmer than here, but I'm sure that you'll be more comfortable on the couch. We have some food."

Evan's eyes widened, then he looked at Daryl for the first time since he’d joined them. Paul rose slowly, careful not to make any sudden movement that might scare the boy. Evan thought for a moment, and when he saw Daryl heading for the stairs, he got up too. Paul took the candle and the first-aid kit and followed them. Once upstairs, they let Evan take the largest couch while Paul rummaged in his backpack and Daryl returned to the basement without a word.

"Here," Paul said, showing him a piece of bread. "I'm afraid that's all we can offer you."

"What do you use to get food?" Evan asked cautiously, but more at ease than before.

"We make ammunition." Which was not exactly a lie, only that they didn’t manufacture a large amount, and they weren’t using it as barter—not for now, at least. Eugene hadn’t been at the factory for a long time, he seemed to be too busy with the damn radio now. He couldn’t deny that the calmness from the past months had made them overly reckless and confident. "Anyway, you say you have enough ammunition and no food, so I guess we'll have to stick to our plan and pay a visit to the other communities."

"No!" The boy's response was unexpected, even to Evan himself. He ducked his head and bit a piece off the bread. "I mean… you can talk to Chloe… she runs our camp… there may be something else you can exchange, I… I don’t understand much about these things…"

Unconsciously, Evan was making it more obvious that his confession about guns had been a lie, Paul didn’t want to say anything about it, though, he didn’t want to make him even more uncomfortable than he already was. He simply smiled. "Do you think Chloe would be willing to talk to us?"

"Yes, and if not, I'll talk to her, I can convince her."

There was noise coming from the basement.

"We'll think about it, but first we'll make sure you return safely to your camp. I'm sure there might be someone missing you, right?"

"Just my sister." Evan bit his lip, as if he blamed himself for speaking too much. But then he shrugged and ate another piece of bread.

"Does your head still hurt?"

"Only a little."

"Do you want me to take a look at the wound?"

Evan was hesitant at first, but then he nodded timidly. Paul came up with the first-aid kit and one of the candles, and began to wipe away all the dried blood.

Daryl appeared shortly after, carrying another camping stove, and headed for the kitchen, while Evan pressed his lips and closed his eyes, trying to hold back the moan caused by the alcohol.

"I’m almost done," Paul said, calmly. "You're very brave, Evan."

After finishing up, Paul watched Daryl move around the room and set the camping stove on the coffee table. Turning it on took him a few minutes, but then he set the Italian coffeepot on the fire.

"I don’t think it's a good idea to give him coffee," Paul said.

"Better than nothin’, have you seen the color of his lips? He needs to warm up."

He was right, so Paul didn’t say anything else. He put a pair of blankets over Evan's shoulders and sat down on the armchair by the window, letting Daryl take care of the boy for a moment. He watched how Daryl tried to modulate his tone so that his hoarse voice sounded as smooth as possible. The way he helped the boy to sit up so he could drink comfortably and how he smiled—likely against his will—when Evan wrinkled his face in disgust at the sour taste of the drink, or the way he encouraged Evan to keep drinking because that would make him feel better.

Out of nowhere, Paul remembered all the times Ben and he had fantasized about the idea of adopting, impossible for them at that time, not only because of the legal aspect of the process, but also because of his own personal situation. How could he think of something as important as becoming a father when Ben was not even aware of who he was going to take such an important step with? His stomach twitched when he realized that his relationship with Daryl was not much better now.

He sank into the armchair, sucking in a quick breath—trying to get the images out of his mind, and snorted with some relief when Evan's voice caught his attention again.

"You shouldn’t go to those communities," he said carefully and without taking his eyes from the mug he held between his hands.

"Why?" Daryl sat down in the only empty armchair.

"Because they—" a moment of indecision, "they are dangerous."

Paul and Daryl exchanged glances.

"Have they done anything to you?" Paul asked.

"They tried it once."

"Why?"

"We, uh—" Yes, Paul knew the answer.

"Were you alone when you spied on us?" he said to the boy’s relief, and before he could continue talking.

Evan thought for a moment. "Yes…"

"You shouldn’t go out there alone," Daryl complained.

"I know how to handle myself," Evan protested.

"The wound on yer face says otherwise."

"I wasn’t expecting you, I just—I only saw _him_."

"Which proves that you were reckless," he replied angrily. "You were lucky that it was us."

"Daryl."

Daryl’s irritation seemed to be guided more by a sudden—and surprising—concern than anything else. Paul watched him curiously while Evan clung to the hot drink.

"I can handle it, this is not the first time I do it," the boy defended himself, but his lips pursed immediately, as if this was not the first time he’d discussed the topic with someone else either. "I should go back," he said then with regret. "My sister must be worried."

"You can’t leave now," Paul said. "It's dark outside and it's snowing. You'll be back at your camp first thing tomorrow, and we—" he looked at Daryl, "we'll figure out what to do. Try to get some sleep."

Neither of them seemed to have the courage to continue arguing, and although Evan tried to stay awake with all his strength, he fell asleep between the cushions shortly after.

The next few hours passed in a blur. Only silence was present both inside and outside, and Paul had to fight hard to keep his eyelids from being more cunning than his willpower. His burning eyes didn’t move away from the night landscape, though he was aware that Daryl's attention was darting between him and the light snores coming from the couch.

It felt strange, being there; Peter had told the truth after all, and now he didn’t know what to do about it. He was sure about one thing, though, he wanted to get away from there, return home, and let everything be as it was before. Forget the suspicious looks and the poisonous words. It hadn’t happened that long ago, and yet it felt like years since the last time he had awakened with the warmth of Daryl's body at his side. Was it possible to miss a person sitting just a few feet away? The pressure on his chest confirmed that, in fact, it was.

"Paul."

His eyes flew open as he jumped up in the armchair. Daryl was crouching in front of him. Outside, the overcast sky began to lighten up, but the night still had at least a couple of hours before it could say goodbye.

"Go to sleep," Daryl said, softly. "I'll keep watch now."

"I'm—" he paused for a second, and in the end decided that the dispute was not worth it. Still, he rose reluctantly as Daryl got back to his feet. Before Paul could walk away, Daryl grabbed his arm. Paul turned to face him, their faces mere inches away. Daryl’s lips parted but whatever was going through his mind, didn’t emerge in the cold stillness that surrounded them. So he let go of his arm, and let him go.

 

***

 

The minutes were capricious, playing with the perception of time while they waited for the night to give way to the day, with all the patience that they were able to gather. Paul fell asleep a couple of times; at least that was what that feeling of disorientated dizziness told him. He shifted on the armchair, unable to find a comfortable posture, and glanced at Evan who was still sound asleep. He also took a look at Daryl who hadn’t moved, still sitting by the window with his eyes firm on the outside. Then Paul looked at the sheets that covered the windows, through the thin cloth, he could see that the darkness was no longer so heavy and blacks were now a shade of grays.

It was dawning.

Paul felt something cold then, and he remembered that it was what had first awakened him. A soft air stream, as if a window or a door had been opened somewhere. He sat up in the armchair, still drowsy, and looked around. Evan slept oblivious to everything, but Daryl’s eyes were on him now. His brows wrinkled, perhaps questioning that expression of uneasiness that he was sure was reflected on his face.

He got up and turned to look at the corridor behind him. Outside, the light was still very dim, leaving the area partially dark. He listened for a moment, but he didn’t hear anything. Then he walked carefully over there, he passed the closed basement door, and also the bathroom which door was ajar. Paul moved it a little, it was a small room and it looked empty. The first of the two rooms was closed, so Paul entered the one at the back of the house. The double bed was in the middle, and he knew, because he had checked the place before, that to his right was a closet and to his left, above the dresser, was a window that was now open. He approached it, his heart needing only a quick glance to start pumping hard. There were traces of mud and footprints on the dresser, and also on the outside. Over the white snow, it was so easy to see them now that he almost felt stupid.

He turned around quickly but his breath caught in his lungs when he saw a girl standing at the other side of the room, pointing a gun at him. Paul raised his hands slowly, regretting that she was too far away for him to disarm her. Then he looked at her face closely, fear and anguish reflected in the green eyes of the young woman who couldn’t be more than twenty years old. Her soaked, long red hair stuck to her pale, freckled face. It was like watching an older, female version of Evan.

The girl said nothing for a few seconds, then motioned for Paul to leave the room. They walked along the corridor together in silence, Paul with his hands up thinking of the stupid ease with which his plans had twisted, and this one couldn’t get any worse.

When they reached the living room, Daryl turned his attention from the window to him. It took him only a second to realize that something was wrong, but it felt like an eternity for Paul. Daryl jumped from the armchair, quickly searching for the crossbow as soon as he saw her, but he stopped abruptly when the girl's voice finally broke the present calm.

"No! Don’t move!"

On the large couch, Evan sat up abruptly, startled, moving his hands exaggeratedly, instinctively searching for the ax he’d taken with him. He didn’t find it, of course, and he hesitated, disoriented, looking back and forth between Daryl and Paul. Then he saw her and his eyes widened, his brows disappearing beneath his bangs.

"Hannah!"

"Evan! Are you okay?"

"I—yeah."

"You’re hurt."

Evan put his hand on his cheek. "Yes… it was—it was an accident."

"Look, he's okay, why don’t we—"

"Shut up!" Hannah cut him off before Paul could continue speaking. "You," she said then, addressing Daryl. "Stay away from the door."

To Paul’s surprise, Daryl obeyed taking a few steps back.

"Further away!"

This time, he grunted an aggravated breath, but still backed away a few more steps.

"Listen, we should talk, this is not what it looks like," Paul interjected, adopting that still, quiet voice that always seemed to work.

"And what does it look like?" There was anger in Hannah's voice but also apprehension.

"We met him, he got hurt, and we took care for him during the night. We were going to let him go as soon as it was morning."

"It's true, Hannah—" Evan pointed out.

"Evan…" Paul could hear bafflement in the girl's voice. "Fucking hell, how many times have we discussed this?"

"I know! You’re right; it's my fault. Hannah, don’t waste the bullets, no—c’mon, we can go home now."

"Of course we're going home."

While the siblings argued, Paul saw Daryl slowly approaching the armchair again; Paul knew that his crossbow was hidden behind it. He shook his head slightly; they needed to solve this in the most peaceful way.

"Are they armed?" Hannah asked her brother.

"I've only seen some knives and a crossbow. The knives are there," he said, pointing to an auxiliary table next to the armchair where Paul had fallen asleep. "The crossbow…" Evan glanced around, but before he could see it, Daryl picked up the crossbow and lifted it quickly, pressing it onto his shoulder.

"No!" the boy screamed and jumped from the couch while Hannah tensed, tightening her gun against the back of Paul's neck.

"Put the crossbow down," Hannah said, her voice losing its firmness.

Daryl looked at her, his eyes as dark and somber as the night. But he didn’t answer, not in words anyway. Daryl turned slightly, swinging the crossbow through the air until the arrow pointed directly at Evan.

The room cooled suddenly and Paul felt his heart sink. Evan looked mortified and Hannah tensed even more behind him.

"Daryl—"

"Who do you think has more to lose here?" Daryl's voice sounded so ruthless that a shiver raced down Paul’s body.

"Let him go," Hannah was more distressed than angry.

"Put the gun down. Now!"

She hesitated; Paul could feel her shift nervously. "Lower your weapon and I'll lower mine."

Daryl pondered the words for a few seconds, then he moved the crossbow away from the child. The pressure on Paul's neck disappeared shortly after.

"Now let him go," Hannah urged, and without waiting for an answer, she spoke again, "Go to the door, Evan."

"Hannah—"

"Go to the fucking door!"

In a doubtful manner, the boy walked toward the exit door, which was right in front of the couch. His uncertain gaze dancing between the three adults—obviously worried about his sister. Once he reached it, he opened the door; the wind entered the house in an angry swirl. Evan narrowed his eyes, annoyed, but before he went out he turned and held out a hand.

"Hannah come on, I’m not leaving without—"

A door slammed shut, startling them all, fueling the breathless sense of uncertainty. In fact, neither Paul nor Daryl were able to react in time when Hannah pushed Paul aside and headed for the door quickly, grabbing her brother and pulling him to run out of the house.

They ran. They all did.

Hannah and Evan ran in front of them, despite the boy's obvious protests—Daryl and Paul were close behind. The cold didn’t matter, nor did the snow that continued falling hard, making it difficult to move freely through it.

Evan stumbled and fell to the ground, taking his sister with him. Hannah scrambled up fast, but before she could help her brother, Daryl caught up with them, grabbing the boy. Hannah raised her gun again, though she didn’t have time to do anything with it since Paul lunged at her. She resisted, fighting to keep Paul from snatching her weapon.

"Hannah!"

What the hell was going on? Paul couldn’t help but wonder over and over as he struggled with the girl. It would have been so easy to knock her down, and yet he couldn’t do it, he didn’t want to hurt her. He just wanted to talk, they _needed_ to talk, explain the situation just as they had done with her brother. It was the only solution to get out of this fucking mess in the best possible way.

The struggle didn’t cease, however, and lasted for endless seconds, until the two ended up on the ground.

Then, everything was over almost as fast as it had begun—Hanna’s gun went off and the sudden sound paralyzed them all. Paul fell back to the damp ground, his ears ringing furiously, and for a moment, he sat there, dazed, waiting for the sharp, burning pain he knew so well to kick in.

But it didn’t.

He breathed hard, his lungs working laboriously, feeling the cold sweat mingling with the snow falling on his face. He sat up quickly, just in time to see the fright in Daryl's face. Paul was even sure that he hadn’t been aware of the moment Evan had slipped from his arms, running toward his sister's now immobile body. Evan’s face looked even paler than Paul had remembered it, eyes drenched in a sea of tears. Then the boy took the gun with shaking hands and lifted it to aim at Paul without hesitation. Paul blinked, almost instinctively, just before the second shot disturbed the air.

It was all it had taken—a simple blink.

When Paul opened his eyes again, Evan was sunk to the snowy ground with an arrow piercing his temple. Then, and after the echo of the shot had faded, the only thing remaining was the silence that fell heavily over them.

It took Paul a few seconds to be able to look away from the siblings, as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Then his eyes met Daryl's—his shock no less than his own. Paul could see him breathing heavily, as he lowered the crossbow and finally dropped it on the ground.

"Fuck… fuck, fuck, fuck." Daryl rubbed his face compulsively.

Paul got up and walked quickly to the bodies—both of them were dead without a doubt. He had to fight the nausea as it threatened to overwhelm him and tried to concentrate on the disastrous situation in which they were now. He had clearly been wrong if at any point he had believed that things couldn’t get any worse.

He jerked when Daryl suddenly appeared at his side. "There’s blood," he said, pointing at his clothes.

"I'm fine, Daryl, it's not mine."

Daryl wasn’t listening, he began to lift the layers of clothing, touching his bare skin with his cold hands, desperately seeking the source of the blood, but he didn’t find it.

"Daryl, listen, I'm fine." Paul grabbed his wrists to stop him. "I'm fine. We have to get out of here. The chances that they’ve heard the shots is high, we have to leave. But first… _shit_ , we… we have to get rid of them first."

He got even sicker after saying it out loud. Was there another option, though? They moved and acted as fast as they could to get rid of the bodies in the most respectful and discreet way they could manage. They tried to cover their tracks and the blood, and after getting back all of their gear, they walked through paths that would be difficult to track until they reached the place where Daryl had hidden his 4x4.

The snow was still falling steadily, though that didn’t stop Daryl from driving at full speed for more than an hour until he stopped the car abruptly near a stream. He jumped out and began to throw up violently. Paul got out immediately, but Daryl didn’t let him get close. When it looked like nothing was left in his stomach, Daryl went to the stream with unsteady steps and dropped down, his knees sinking in the snow. He splashed cold water over his face and in his mouth, and growled angrily.

"Daryl… Daryl." Paul crouched beside him, cupping his face with both hands.

"What’ve I done, _what have I done_ —" Daryl fought the contact for a moment, but Paul held him tightly.

"Daryl, listen to me, let's not think about it here, no— _look at me_ , Daryl, hey, look at me." He took his face firmly. "Let’s go home…" he said softly, erasing the drops that slid down his cheeks with his thumbs, not sure if they were tears, the snow melting on his face lit by rage, or both. "Daryl… let's go home."

 


	13. 11

8 MONTHS AGO.

 

Daryl glanced at the old clock hanging from the wall in the waiting room as he tried to ignore the soft, impatient sounds coming from the seat next to him—it was almost impossible. He dropped his hand and gripped Paul's knee firmly.

"For fuck's sake, can you stop?"

"I’m nervous."

"Me too, but yer making me want to tie you to the chair. How long have they been in there?"

"Two hours and forty-four minutes—three since her water broke."

Daryl turned in his seat to watch Paul closely.

"What?"

He shook his head. Then, a new, painful groan came from the other end of the hospital trailer. Daryl and Paul looked at each other.

"Paul, everything will be fine." Fuck, how much he hated that damn phrase. "Maggie's in good hands, Harlan, Alex, and Tara know what they're doin’."

Daryl was not sure if those words were aimed to make Paul feel better, or if he was actually trying to convince himself. His mind was running rampant; he couldn’t stop thinking about Lori—the circumstances had been completely different back then, but Maggie had been there with her and Carl. He couldn’t begin to imagine the fear she had to have gone through and the frustration she must have felt when she’d realized there was nothing she could do to avoid the fatal outcome.

"How long can this thing take?"

"Active labor may take about eight hours."

Daryl cursed under his breath. "Maybe we should go outside and do some shit in the meantime, instead of waiting here like idiots."

"But there’s something called prolonged labor," Paul continued. "It happens when it lasts longer than twenty hours and can lead to infections and dehydration of the mother. In fact, ten percent of women suffer complications during childbirth. The most common is perineal laceration—there are different degrees, and it can go from being just a superficial tear of perineal skin or vaginal mucosa to complicated tears involving perineal muscles, the anal sphincter, and rectal mucosa," he added with an unnecessary and dramatic cutting motion with his hand. "Then there’s also abnormal fetal heart rate that happens when the baby is not getting adequate oxygenation, for example when the umbilical cord is wrapped around the neck, in that case, they may have to perform a C-section—but you know, many people believe the baby is being _strangled_ when that happens, but actually, it’s because the blood flow through the umbilical cord to the baby can be disturbed that way, worst case leading to cardiac arrest in the infant."

Daryl was sure that his face had lost any trace of blood. "Where the hell—"

Paul shrugged. "I saw a book by chance in the library."

"By chance? Did it fall off the shelf and hit your head?"

The trailer’s door opened at that moment and a light, cool, wet breeze accompanied Brianna as the woman entered, smiling widely and carrying two very tempting steaming mugs.

"Here, I was thinking of bringing you some coffee, but I think this lemon balm tea will do you a lot better. How's everything in there?"

"We don’t know," Paul answered.

"Oh well, it took me eighteen hours to give birth to my son. Patience. Don’t hesitate to let me know when you need anything."

When the door closed behind her, Daryl glanced at the clock again and then sniffed at the hot drink. "Maybe I should go get us some beers."

"The celebration is supposed to happen after the baby is born."

"Yes, but if we get drunk now, maybe the wait won’t be as boring, and it's always fun to see you unable to say two sentences in a row."

"Shut up."

"Did you read that book with those glasses on?"

Paul turned to him, frowning. "What glasses?"

"The glasses you hide in the second drawer and that you use to read when you think I'm asleep."

Although Daryl managed to hold back a smile, he couldn’t ignore the degree of satisfaction that used to dominate him when he got Paul to look just like he was doing right now, completely fuzzy-headed.

"Where did you get them?" Daryl asked then at the lack of response.

Paul turned his attention to the door that separated the waiting room from the office; his face changing into an expressionless mask.

"I took them in the house," he said softly.

Daryl knew what he meant by ‘the house’. Since they had been there, it had been the way he referred to it. Not ‘my old house’ or ‘mine and Ben’s house’, now it was just ‘the house’. All of a sudden, Daryl didn’t feel as pleased as he had been a moment before.

"I saw them when I went upstairs to get the sheets to—" He paused. "They were on the bedside table I used to use. You know how much I like to read, but it was getting harder and harder, I couldn’t spend more than half an hour with a book without it giving me a headache. So, I don’t know, I saw them there and just took them. I didn’t think too much about it, and honestly, I’m not even sure why I've been hiding them."

"Don’t do it. You look good in them."

Paul turned to face him again, this time with a smile on his face. "Are you trying to distract me?"

"Is it working?"

But then, another deafening scream broke the brief calm they had managed to build. Daryl rubbed his face and Paul sank into his seat.

"One of these days…" Daryl drank the hot drink thoughtfully, "you should wear them—I mean, _just_ the glasses."

"Seriously, Daryl, stop." His laughter resonated so loudly in the room that he had to cover his mouth to remind himself that this was neither the place nor the time. Then he snorted. "I hope they have everything they need in there, I couldn’t bring everything Harlan had asked for the last time I went to the city."

Daryl shifted hastily in his seat. "You did what?"

"What?" Now the fucker dared to act all innocent.

"Did you go to the city on your own to get medical supplies?"

"Eh… didn’t I tell you?"

"No, you didn’t."

"Oh, well, maybe I forgot."

He wanted to strangle him, but instead he grunted, folding his arms, and neither of them said anything for a long time. The stillness was only interrupted by the vague sounds coming from the back of the trailer. Daryl didn’t stop glancing at the clock, and for a moment, he was tempted to get up to check if it really worked. His ass ached from sitting in that uncomfortable plastic chair, and the unusual impatience that Paul was trying to hide without success didn’t make the wait any easier.

When Daryl glanced for the millionth time at the clock hands, it had passed more than three and a half hours. He was lying on three of the seats in the waiting room while Paul paced back and forth, tapping his lips with his fingers—God knows what was going through his head.

It was already dark outside and many curious neighbors had come by during the day to check on how everything was going, but except that they’d been alone, and they preferred it this way. They had decided that they didn’t want to send a messenger to Alexandria and The Kingdom—where Carol lived now—until the baby was born.

From those who were with Maggie, only Tara had come once to let them know that, apart from the unanswerable urges to kill, Maggie was doing fine and that everything was going normally. He had not the slightest idea what ‘normal’ meant, but at least it sounded encouraging.

Daryl closed his eyes; perhaps if he managed to get some sleep, the time would pass faster, but then someone touched his forehead softly, and when he opened his eyes, he saw Paul standing in front of him. Daryl sat up a little, leaving space for him to sit down, and settled his head back on his lap. Then he closed his eyes again when Paul began to stroke his hair with his fingers.

"Do you want to go rest?"

"Nah, you’ve infected me with your damn nervousness; now I just can’t wait. Why ain’t it as easy as: _pop_ , here's your baby."

Paul chuckled. "I’ve heard that in some countries in Europe they say to the kids that the stork brings the babies from Paris."

"Really? That’d be a long trip."

"Actually, technically it would be impossible. Although storks can fly five hundred miles a day, they only travel by day and avoid oceans because the currents are not favorable for their flight."

"Paul… I was fucking kidding."

"Me too."

"How can you store all that useless information? Seriously, your brain will explode one day."

"I'm a curious man."

"You don’t say."

There was a long pause before Paul spoke again. "Have you ever thought about it? Being a father, I mean."

Daryl opened one eye and looked up, trying to figure out if Paul was just joking or if it was a serious question—it seemed like a real fucking serious question.

Daryl meditated carefully for a few seconds. "No, I guess not. Never had a reason to." He was not sure if he really wanted to ask back, but he did it anyway. "You?"

"Maybe, sometimes, but not openly, that was Ben. He was the one who was really excited about the idea; I just pretended not to be interested because—well, you know why. It was not a good idea at the time, but yeah, I would have liked to be a dad. I like kids, and Ben was so good with them. Abbie adored him—anyway, I heard you were very good with Judith when you all were back at the prison, but the truth is, I've never seen you with her."

It was not the subtlest way to change the subject, but Daryl was not going to be the one to complain about it. "That's ‘cause you keep me freakin’ busy here. How do you find out about all these stories?"

"I have my sources."

"Sure…" Daryl couldn’t help moving his head to glance at the clock again.

Another twenty minutes passed after that, and during which the two settled into a strange calm. Daryl with his head on Paul's lap, and Paul's fingers tangled in his hair. He could spend all day just like this; unfortunately his mind didn’t let him rest. Suddenly, the images of the night at the clearing with Negan and his men returned more vivid than ever—the bat, the blood. Glenn.

"I wish he were here," he said almost without realizing it, and although he didn’t specify, he knew he didn’t need to. "He _should_ be here."

His voice cracked for a moment and Paul brushed his cheek with his thumb, as if he were erasing an invisible tear. Daryl cursed to himself. This was not the time to think about it, this was Maggie's moment, this was a happy moment, this was—

The office door burst open. Paul stood up quickly, sending Daryl to the floor. Tara appeared there and they waited for her to say something, but she didn’t, she just smiled broadly, eyes twinkling. Then they heard it, the healthy new sound of a baby crying.

 

 

* * *

 

 

TODAY.

 

Sitting under the table, Cat kept watching Daryl intensely; the animal’s amber eyes scrutinized him as if he were expecting something from him.

"I've fed you already, what else do you want?"

Almost certainly that he would get up from that piece of green trash and find another place to sit, but Daryl was unable to move. His body could’ve been a static block if it weren’t for his knee jerking nervously in anticipation.

He was uncertain about how much time had passed. With the state of the roads, the drive to Hilltop had taken them more hours than they would have wished to waste. During all the way, Daryl’s eyes hadn’t stopped wavering between the undefined white horizon and the rear-view mirror of the car while he had wondered how long it would take the expected black dot to appear reflected there.

It didn’t happen, though. They had been alone, but that hadn’t helped him to erase the image of Evan and his sister lying in the snow.

He shook his head angrily. They were back, they were at Hilltop, they were home.

He snorted impatiently and turned his attention to one of the small windows. Outside, the day was fading off, leaving room for a new night. Meanwhile, he was there, still waiting.

Maggie had been at Barrington House’s porch, waiting for them. Crossing the high gates separating the colony from the rest of the world had made Daryl feel a second of relief, but only until he had seen Maggie, her expression so stony that for a moment he’d thought she wouldn’t even wait for them to get off the car to show how furious she was.

Fortunately, she hadn’t, and before leaving the car, Paul had asked him to let him talk to her—all that shit had been his idea and he assured him he would take care of it. Daryl had wanted to protest, although he suspected that it had been rather due to the routine of the impulse than a real desire to do so. After all, it was true, it had all been Paul's idea, and it was his responsibility— _all_ of it. Disobeying Maggie's orders, drawing the plan behind her back, ending up lost in a dingy house with an unconscious child…

Evan.

Hannah.

Snow.

Blood.

He could still hear the echo of the shots reverberating in his damn ears, and yet, sitting on that scruffy couch now, he no longer thought the same. He had decided to ignore the agreement he had reached with Paul and follow him, and he had done it on his own. He had chosen to go instead of staying at Hilltop as he’d promised he would do to keep Maggie from feeling as betrayed as she probably felt right now, and making sure they were prepared for what might happen.

_If I don’t come back…_

Paul had said. The damn crazy chatterbox.

Still, Daryl had done it again—acting on impulse. Not thinking for a single second about the consequences, and now, both of them were paying for their stupid decisions.

His body almost jerked off the couch when he heard the knock at the door, but his shoulders relaxed with a certain sense of disappointment when Tara entered the trailer.

"Ah, it's you."

"Hello, Daryl? How are you? Oh, yeah, I'm really glad to see you, too—asshole."

Daryl snorted reluctantly, but at least he was able to articulate some sort of "sorry" before Tara dropped herself beside him.

"Hello, hair ball, I'm sure you're glad to see me, huh?" The cat raised his tail enthusiastically and rubbed his body against Tara's legs. "What the hell are you doing here?" she asked after turning to look at him. "Why aren’t you in the office with him?"

"He told me not to."

"And since when do you do listen to him?"

Fucking Tara.

Daryl wasn’t in the mood for a fight with her, so he shrugged and let the silence speak for him.

"Man, I've never seen Maggie like this before," Tara remarked after a few minutes. "When we got back, after leaving Peter, and we told her what Jesus had done… she was _so_ angry, and then your guys came back from the outpost and told us that you were gone too—not that it surprised us, you know? But, God, she felt so betrayed. Disappointed that two of the most important people for her would have undermined her authority in front of everyone, disobeying her, planning behind her back, and embarking on a suicide mission without anyone else’s help. And I assure you that this is not my take on things, this is exactly what Maggie has just told Jesus. I was in the office before they came in, and it's been one of the ugliest things I've seen since I've been living here."

Daryl took a deep breath and pushed himself even deeper into the worn cushions.

"I don’t think they were even aware that I was there," Tara continued. "I ran out as soon as I could. But hey, don’t worry, your ass is safe. Jesus insisted that you had nothing to do with this, that he convinced you to help him, assuring that Maggie knew everything."

Was that supposed to make him feel better? Paul was in the office, arguing with Maggie on his own. Their close relationship wasn’t a secret; Paul had been a vital support for Maggie when she’d had no other choice but to stay at Hilltop indefinitely. They were close, very close—family. Although some idiots who’d never bothered to try to get to know Paul better—and despite the past and present evidence—had always suspected that there was something else going on between them. Daryl knew that this whole Peter Bennett debacle was going to be a turning point between Maggie and Paul, and no, he definitely didn’t feel better after knowing that Paul was taking all the blame for the two of them.

"They'll be fine," Tara said, as if she had read his thoughts.

"I want to hit something every time someone says that ‘everything will be fine’—no, shit."

Tara shifted her shoulders indifferently. "It may be an empty phrase, but you know what they are like, Maggie and Jesus are two of the most annoyingly rational people I know."

Daryl grunted. "Why did you come here, Tara?"

"Because I wanted to see if you’re okay. From what Jesus told Maggie, it seems things didn’t turn out too well there."

Daryl sat up straight in alarm. "What did he say?"

"Well, that you ran into two people, presumably from Peter's camp, and that things ended badly."

Daryl waited a moment, but it didn’t look like Tara was going to add anything else.

"That’s all?"

"Is there more? What a stupid question, of course there's more," she said, sighing and before Daryl could add anything. "But, you know what? I know you're not going to tell me so I'm not going to waste my time, I'm tired and I have to go to Alexandria tomorrow. Are you hungry?" Tara got up and crossed the small kitchen, opening one of the low cabinets.

"Why are you goin’ to Alexandria?"

"To inform Rick about everything, they need to know, just in case—wow, you already have drunk that wine that you’d been hiding here."

"Yer way too late for that."

"I see. Well, I'll go get something to eat."

"I’m not—"

But Tara was already gone.

 

***

  

Considering the circumstances, dinner proceeded normally. Tara didn’t ask any more questions about the mission, if it could be called that, though Daryl was aware that it wasn’t because of the lack of curiosity. She really looked tired, so much that she didn’t even ask about Paul, who hadn’t showed up since they had arrived.

Again, that fucking feeling of uncertainty seized him and he wondered what he could do to put an end to all this mess. His mind didn’t stop shuffling scenarios about what could have really happened if the plan had gone as planned and Evan had returned to his camp safe and sound.

He was not stupid, he knew it wouldn’t have made a huge difference—nothing would have changed. Forgetting the words loaded with ammunition and the suspicious looks was not going to be that easy. Even if the plan had gone well, he was certain that everything would have stayed the same between them.

"I'm gonna go sleep," he growled, rising to his feet after a moment in which Tara hadn’t stopped telling anecdotes about her teenage years—probably to fill the silence—and to which Daryl had paid no attention at all.

"Aren’t you going to wait?" Daryl turned to look at her, Tara gestured toward the door. "For him."

"He's not coming."

"Why are you so sure?"

"Do you wanna bet?"

Tara showed the palms of her hands. "No, if you say it with such conviction."

Daryl turned and walked to the room, but stopped when Tara spoke again, "Do you want me to stay?"

His first instinct would have been to say no, but Daryl surprised himself by bowing his head and shrugging his shoulders.

He couldn’t help but feel like a stranger in the bedroom; it was as if it had been years since the last time he’d slept there, waking up with Paul by his side. His heart twisted. Perhaps it would have been a better idea to have gone to sleep at Tammy's as he had done for the past few days, but it was late and he was not going to leave Tara alone.

Hours later, he was still awake, his hands curled into loose fists as he rolled between the sheets. His head didn’t stop projecting all those images like intermittent flashes: Evan, Paul, Hannah, blood, snow, Peter, Maggie. Paul, Paul, Paul. Paul's impassivity, Paul's fury, Paul's helplessness, Paul's disappointment. Blood. Snow. His stomach hurt, his head hurt, his—

"Can’t you sleep either?"

Daryl spun around quickly to find Tara at the door, his mind still too convulsive to form a coherent question.

"How could you sleep in that damn bed before?" she asked, approaching.

"I’d slept in worse places"

"Would you mind if I slept here?"

"Is it necessary?"

"Not if you don’t want me to."

Well, of course having Tara there was better than feeling like a lonely idiot.

"Okay."

Tara grabbed the sheets, but released them again. "You're dressed, right?" Daryl snorted, letting his head fall back onto the pillow. "I'll take it as a yes."

After Tara settled down, silence returned, but this time it didn’t feel so heavy. He wouldn’t admit it out loud, let alone in front of her, but having Tara there made him feel a lot better—or at least less alone. Especially seconds later when he noticed another lightweight on the foot of the bed. The new intruder walked over the duvet with slow but determined steps until Daryl felt a pile of soft fur against the nape of his neck.

"You have to be fuckin’ kidding me."

Tara began to laugh as Cat settled himself on the pillow between their heads.

"Maybe he's protecting his other owner’s property, which is kinda cute—oh little thing, if you knew."

"Go to sleep."

"Okay…" There was a brief moment of silence, but Daryl knew she was not finished yet. "Daryl?"

"What."

"Don’t kill me okay, but… seriously, everything will be fine."

Daryl closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Yeah, maybe.

When he opened his eyes again, he did it abruptly, jerking awake. He had fallen asleep, though he couldn’t be sure for how long. Tara breathed steadily beside him and when he moved his head, he noticed that Cat was in the same place. He heard it then, the sound that had awakened him, the door to the trailer now closing slowly. Then there were footsteps that stopped at the entrance of the room. Daryl didn’t need to sit up and look to know it was Paul. He heard something that sounded like a low chuckle and Paul walked away. The flimsy wall, separating that room from the other, muffled the sound of his boots now. The mattress whined, as if Paul had dropped himself on it—then there was a sigh.

It would be so easy to get up and get into the bed with him, even though he didn’t know what he would say if he did. Who cared anyway, words were overrated, actions were what really mattered, and they didn’t need encouraging words right now, all they needed was to forget the last couple of weeks.

It would be easy, Paul was right there, in that claustrophobic room, lying on that tiny mattress—Daryl's mind traveled uncontrollably to that first night in which they’d shared that bed. They hadn’t slept together, but after what Paul had done—after what Paul had done to _him_ , nothing had mattered anymore. It hadn’t been just about sex, especially considering that Paul hadn’t even taken off his clothes, it was not about the fact that Paul had touched him like no one else had ever done before, it was that for the first time in his fucking life, he had felt free to feel.

Hell, so much had changed since then. _Everything will be fine_. He couldn’t help but repeat Tara's words in his head. He wished she were right, because he was convinced he would go crazy otherwise.

He exhaled, exhausted, and the physical and moral fatigue seemed to have done the rest, because when he opened his eyes again, it was morning already. The hours of sleep had done nothing for the pain he felt throughout his body, but at least he was grateful for the break his mind had given him.

He rolled around on the bed to find that he was alone, then he fixed his eyes on the chipped ceiling and thought of the hours ahead, wondering what he could do with them. Talking to Paul didn’t seem like a good idea, nor was talking with Maggie, especially after what Tara had told him. Even if Paul had taken the blame, it was best to avoid Maggie for at least a couple of days.

The mere thought made him feel even worse than he already had done. Maybe it was best to stay in bed and wait for everything to be back to normal on its own.

What a stupid thing to think.

He sat up and got out of bed. The smell of fresh coffee permeated his nostrils when he stepped out into the narrow hall. Tara was having breakfast at the table.

"Good morning," she said matter-of-factly. "Jesus prepared some coffee for us, he said it was the one he found during our trip. Now I regret not having brought back some of it myself, it's not bad. Brianna also delighted us with some yummy pancakes—by the way, you owe me something."

"What?"

"The bet. He came to sleep here after all."

"You didn’t take the bet." Then, and almost on impulse, Daryl looked around.

"Shit, you're right—he’s not here," Tara added nonchalantly. "Which reminds me that I should get going, too."

Tara stood up, drinking the content of her mug in one gulp and circled the table, stopping in front of Daryl.

"See you in a couple of days, okay? Don’t do anything stupid," she said, patting him on the shoulder, then she made a move to leave, but stopped again, muttering something and looking at Daryl with an expression he couldn’t read. "Look, I don’t like to stick my nose into anyone's business—well, that's not entirely true, but… you should go to the stables."

Tara hurried to the door and left the trailer without saying anything else. Minutes later, Daryl was walking urgently toward the stables. His stomach twisted when he entered and saw that the door to Dama’s box was open, but if he had to be honest, he wasn’t really surprised.

"Where are you going?" The words slipped out of his mouth before Paul even noticed his presence. In fact, he turned around startled, his hands on the mare's saddle.

It took Paul a few seconds to react, but then his expression settled into that one of neutrality he was used to use with everyone and that Daryl hated so much when he used it on him.

"I'm going to the Kingdom to inform them of everything that has happened. Tara will go to Alexandria, but I guess you already know that," he said, his voice as composed as ever.

"Yes, because she had the balls to tell me."

"Not that she had any reason not to. But since I guess you’re wondering, I was going to tell you."

"When?"

"You were sleeping."

"That ain’t an answer."

Paul finished adjusting the strap and turned to look at Daryl. "Okay… it's possible that I was delaying the moment—I'm going to stay at The Kingdom for a few days, I don’t know how many, maybe a week. So I suppose I was just trying to find the best way to tell you this, so you wouldn’t think this is what it isn’t."

"And what the hell is it?"

"It's only some time apart. We need it."

"Really? Since when do you make decisions like this for both of us?"

Paul squeezed the bridge of his nose in a clear attempt to remain calm. "Daryl, please, I didn’t have a good night—I don’t want to argue with you."

"We ain’t arguing!"

That was silly, it was exactly what they were doing, but he wasn’t going to retract his words now.

"Look, I just want what's best for us," Paul said.

"And you running away is the best thing?"

"I’m not running away," he said without raising his voice, but firmly enough. Then he paused, closing his eyes. "If you weren’t so damn stubborn, you would also understand that giving us some time to think is the best thing we can do right now."

Daryl was willing to contradict him, but Paul spoke first, "Daryl, we haven’t done anything else but fight for the last few days, and we already have said enough ugly things I’m sure we both regret—at least I do. If we keep forcing this, how long do you think it will take us before we say or do something that damages this relationship irrevocably? Tell me, is that what you want?"

No, of course not, and though he knew that Paul, with his fucking and exasperating coherence, was right, he couldn’t help but feel cheated. Tara had known he was going to The Kingdom, Maggie probably knew, too, and who knows who else did. He was the last fool on the list, and he wondered what would have happened if he’d gone to the outpost early in the morning as he had always done. Paul would have gone to The Kingdom without telling him, maybe he would have left a note or—

No, that was stupid; Paul would never do something like that, yet, Daryl was too pissed off to think reasonably.

"Okay," he said then with more anger in his voice than he’d actually planned. "If this is what you want."

"It's not about what I—"

"I don’t give a shit!" he snapped. "Go away, I don’t fuckin’ care!"

"Daryl—"

He could hear his footsteps behind him as he headed for the exit, but he didn’t turn around.

"Daryl, stop, you're acting like a child."

"Well, you’ve asked me to grow up more than once, maybe I haven’t gotten to that point yet."

Fuck, of course he was acting childishly, but somehow he was unable to control his actions and feelings. He was going to find Tara, that was what he was going to do—but, as chance would have it, Tara appeared in front of the stables door, walking towards the shed where the cars were kept. She stopped short as soon as she saw them.

"Can you wait ten minutes?" Daryl asked gravely and fully aware that Paul was right behind him, crystal eyes pinned like needles to the back of his head.

"Eh…" she looked between them, "yes, I suppose. Why?"

"I'm going to Alexandria with you."


	14. 12

13 MONTHS AGO.

 

"Well, this is the last one." Aaron set the box next to the other four that were now piling up in the narrow entrance of the trailer. "Do you need anything else?"

There were those fucking butterflies dancing in Daryl’s stomach again. They were really doing this, him and Paul, they were moving in together, living in the same space twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, and the worst of it all was that it had been his idea.

What if it didn’t work out? Seeing each other’s faces all the time wasn’t the same as to see each other sporadically. He was nervous—no, not exactly nervous, he was fucking scared of the possibility that this would end up being a really bad idea. After all, what were they to each other? He was not even sure he could define what was going on between them. They had kissed, yes, but he had kissed other people too. They had also had sex, and although Daryl was not exactly a virginal saint, what he’d had with Paul couldn’t be considered even remotely similar to any of the other experiences he’d had in the past. It had been weird and good, but also a desperate act, and—

"Daryl."

Daryl turned quickly and looked at Aaron as if he hadn’t seen the man in a long time. "Eh, yeah, I think that's all…" Then he turned to ask Paul, but pushed the words back into his throat.

Paul was standing in the kitchen, back turned to them, head down and hands resting on the back of one of the chairs. His shoulders moved laboriously as he tried to breathe with obvious effort. Daryl and Aaron shared a worried look. Daryl approached him slowly, raising a hand to touch his back, but he dismissed the idea instantly and dropped it again. Paul's eyes were closed, but he opened them as soon as he noticed him. In a mere fraction of a second, his expression restored into that carefree mask he showed to everyone. Still, he said nothing. Aaron waited patiently as Paul stretched the muscles of his back and released the chair.

"Yeah, that's all. Thanks for helping us out, Aaron. Are you leaving tomorrow?"

"Yes, now that everything seems to be back to normal, which I’m glad for, I think it's time for me to go home."

Aaron walked up and said goodbye to them affectionately, not before asking Daryl to pay them a visit soon. Then he closed the door and that was it. They were alone. Daryl looked at the stacked boxes in the hallway and then turned his attention back to Paul. He was smiling, that brazen smile of his. Daryl scratched his stomach unconsciously.

"You look uncomfortable," Paul said then.

"What?"

"You're so nervous. It’s not too late for me to move back to my room, it's still empty."

"No, no, it's just—"

"I know. Why don’t you show me the place?"

"There ain’t much to see, and you’ve been here already."

"Come on, archer, play along a little. It will help ease the tension."

It was stupid, but he still did it, even though it didn’t take them more than two minutes to walk around the trailer and show Paul what would be their home from that moment on.

"This is some ugly piece of furniture." Back in the kitchen, Paul sat down on the couch with a tired sigh that he deliberately tried to conceal, and stretched his arms to the sides, touching that awful green upholstery.

Daryl poured himself a glass of water and then turned around, leaning against the worn counter. "Cat likes it."

"Of course he does." Paul stroked the animal lying down beside him. "This is better than wandering the streets, isn’t it?"

It was; this was much better than being lost in the woods without knowing if you would still be alive at the end of the day. Something new that Daryl wasn’t sure he was fully prepared for—okay, actually he was scared shitless, but he couldn't help it, the prospect of this failing really terrified him.

"You alright?"

Daryl returned his attention to Paul. "Yeah, you? You look tired."

"I am. Which is funny, because I've spent the last thirteen days lying on a bed or sitting on a chair, eating non-stop, and having little walks that would even embarrass a sloth. Look at this," he said, trying to grab a roll of fat that clearly didn’t exist.

Daryl had to smile at Paul's attempt to make him relax.

"Are you hungry?" At least cooking would be a distraction.

"Yeah," Paul said, standing up.

"No, stay there, I'll make dinner."

"Come on, Daryl, I want to do something, I'm bored, I feel so useless. Besides, you shouldn’t try to build up this _Perfect Partner_ image, you know? The attentive man, who not only knows how to cook, but also knows how to fight, take care of himself, and is also a handyman—if everything turns out to be a farce in a month, I will be tremendously disappointed."

"You won’t. I’m always like this— _perfect_."

He was not sure where that idiocy had come from, but hearing Paul's laughter was more than enough for him. For the past few days, and although Paul had tried hard to act normal, Daryl had seen something in his eyes that he hadn’t been able to ignore. He couldn’t be sure of what it was and hadn’t had the courage to ask either.

They cooked something simple and dined quietly. Then they settled down as best as they could on the couch.

"I should empty the boxes," Daryl said.

"Leave them for now, they're mostly books, and I don’t see anywhere I can put them right now anyway. I'll think about it when I feel less like a truck had hit me."

"Do you wanna go to bed?" His heart spun in his chest suddenly. "To sleep." And now he felt like an idiot for having to clarify.

Paul started to laugh—of course—and put a hand on his stomach as if he wanted to avoid the shaking.

"Does it still hurt?"

"No, it doesn’t anymore. I guess it's a reflex act I've gotten used to."

Then there was a silence that stretched unnecessarily. Daryl tried to think of something to say that didn’t sound too dumb, but finally gave up just as Paul spoke again, "We don’t have to do this if you don’t feel comfortable."

"We fucked already," he said, as if he needed to defend himself and this was a reasonable response.

Paul raised an eyebrow. "I thought we were talking about sleeping."

"Right."

"Okay, come on." Paul shifted and struggled to his feet, then offered him a hand that Daryl took after hesitating for a second.

They walked down the short hallway and he was surprised when Paul chose the extra—and ridiculously small—room instead of the large one, and settled down on the bed with his back resting on the wooden wall. Then he patted the quilt right next to him for Daryl to sit down.

"Do you remember the last time we were here?"

Oh, yes, he did, and he didn’t think he would ever forget it. "I think so."

Paul looked at him with that warm smile he'd grown so accustomed to, then he turned to stare at the window, at the black, starry sky that could be seen above the walls of the colony.

"Tell me about your life before all this, when you were out there with your brother."

"There ain’t much to tell." There really wasn’t. "It was always the same thing—bars, drunkenness, fights, puffy eyes, sex with random women. The next day, after we could recover our consciousness, everythin’ started again."

"Have you ever thought about leaving?"

"Leaving?"

"Yeah, get your car or bike and go away to build a new life for yourself."

This was a thought that had always been there, but he had refused to pay attention to it because, after all, where could he go? With almost no money and no experience in anything that could really be useful. And anyway, he would never have been able to leave Merle. Just thinking about it, the few times he had done it had felt like betrayal to the only person sharing his blood who’d seemed to care about him, and there was the other major problem, he was convinced that Merle wouldn’t have let him go either. Merle had needed him as much as he had needed Merle.

"No." He raised his feet on the bed and rested his arms on his knees. "Not that I thought there might be another life waiting for me out there anyway."

"And then the world turned into hell."

"Yeah… What about you? When did you decide that you wanted to become a government puppet?"

"I guess I fell in love with Sean Connery at some point in my childhood, even though he was an arrogant, sexist jerk. Being a spy wasn’t as romantic as in the movies, though; there were no cool tools or tuxedos. Or maybe it was because the British knew how to do things better." His face relaxed then into a blank expression. "I don’t know, really. I might’ve been attracted to the idea of being able to find those moving among us secretly, with the potential of doing some real and irreparable damage."

Daryl considered the answer for a moment, wondering what he really meant, but chose not to comment. Then he asked, "What did you do to get in?"

"Being a good student, getting a degree in Economics and International Relations, and working like a fucker for the first few years to enter the Counterterrorism group."

"Is that where you learned how to fight?"

"You can learn a lot of things, I did some extracurricular studies while I was working, and yes, I also learned how to fight. It was not a requirement, but the confidence you gained in yourself when you're in delicate situations is quite considerable." He paused then. "You know? I loved my job, and if it hadn’t been for the personal constraints I built around it, I would have been the happiest person in the world. But I was an idiot, and I paid for it. Now tell me, what was the worst situation in which you and your brother have ever found yourselves in?"

"The worst?" Fuck, there were so many that he really had to think hard for a long time. "There was a time—we were in a bar, and my asshole brother, who didn’t know how to shut the fuck up, began to fool around with a woman who turned out to be married to a guy who was like 7’, and who was there with this whole group of fellow bikers, also as big as fucking bears. I have no idea what happened after the first table flipped, I only remember waking up in a ditch, tasting blood and mud. My whole body ached, my face burned and I could only see with one eye. Merle was sitting there, as if nothing had happened, as if his face was not a fucking mess. He was just smoking, and when he saw that I finally had opened my eyes, the first thing he said was _'was ‘bout time, asshole_ , _I woulda killed ya myself if I had to take you to a hospital._ '"

"I would have liked to meet your brother."

Daryl smiled silently, aware of the non-verbal implication of that statement—he was not going to deny that he wouldn’t have minded to see Paul teaching Merle a lesson or two. Just imagining his brother’s face was good enough.

He relaxed then, settling on the mattress, and they spent most of the night just like this—talking, telling stories from the past, getting to know each other better, because even though they thought there was nothing else to know, there was always something new to learn about the other, such as where Paul's aversion against mice came from. Daryl spent minutes laughing over it until Paul punched him in the ribs.

They talked about their adolescence, talked about the bad stories and the good stories—the funny stories, the embarrassing ones, and those that weren’t so much. They spoke as if there was nothing more important to do than the two of them collecting memories of a long lost past.

"You should go to sleep," Daryl said after losing count of the times Paul had yawned.

"No. I'm fine. I'm good here."

Daryl wasn’t even sure how they'd ended up like this, Paul with his feet on the head of the bed and head resting on Daryl’s right thigh, while he leaned to one side with his weight on one elbow and his other leg flexed over the mattress—it was not comfortable, in fact his arm had fallen asleep, but nothing mattered, because all those nerves and doubts had been completely wiped out of his mind. Now it was just the two of them in that tiny room, and the comforting silence.

"Look at that." Paul's voice sounded weak, almost sleepy, as he pointed to the window. It was dawning. Paul put his head back to smile at him. "Looks like we’ve survived our first day of coexistence."

"It hasn’t even been a full day."

"Well, yeah, while that's true," he said, slowly sitting up on the bed again, his smile still there, "I guess this is a good moment to start counting which one of us will be the first to run."

 

* * *

 

TODAY.

 

When Alexandria’s gates opened for them, his whole body reacted with a strange mixture of nerves and excitement. Daryl could barely remember the last time he’d been here, in this place that once had been his home, and where a large part of his family and friends lived. Those who had survived by his side almost since the beginning, and those who had joined later, who knows if by chance or because fate had really wanted it that way.

The trip had been surprisingly quiet, which, in this case, meant complete silence. Tara had driven the car and hadn’t opened that mouth of hers all along the way. Daryl sometimes wondered if _chatterbox_ didn’t suit her more than Paul, but just like Paul, Tara knew when to keep her distance from a problem—that's why the damn crazy fucker had gone to The Kingdom, because _'they needed_ fucking _time apart'_.

Bullshit.

Daryl lowered the window when he saw Abraham approaching them, his rifle on his shoulder and a big smile framed by his thick mustache. It looked even bushier and redder than the last time he'd seen him.

"Welcome back, stranger. Tara."

"How's everything, man?"

"So normal that you could say that it's even more boring than watching a snail race. If any of these people would hear me say that I miss the action, I'd probably end up with one of _those_ in my ass," he said, nodding toward the mountain of bullet shells at the corner of the entrance that they had left there like some kind of tribute monument for all those who’d fallen in the war. Then he glanced at the rear seats. "Are you coming alone?"

"No, the surprise squad is in the trunk." Daryl's response made Abraham's mustache curl even further.

"Glad to see you both." Then he friendly hit the hood before moving away.

The news of their arrival ran like wildfire, and Rick and Michonne were already waiting for them halfway from their home. Daryl wouldn’t have known how to describe what he felt when he saw them—hell, it had really been a long time. Michonne looked as strong and composed as ever, the only big difference was the wide smile that pierced the mounds of her cheeks and reflected vividly in her eyes. Rick was a different matter, he looked older, but at the same time the carefreeness on his face made his expression look more youthful and full of vitality.

Daryl wanted to make some jokes about his long-drawn-out absence, but Rick pounced on him for an intense, heartfelt embrace, before his brain was able to come up with something clever enough.

He was very close to tearing up. He’d known he had missed them, but had underestimated the impact it would have on him to see his family again. When Rick let him breathe again, Daryl hugged Michonne.

"I'm so glad to see you back."

"Jesus was starting to run out of ways to justify your absence," Rick added. He smiled, but there was sadness in his voice.

Daryl felt embarrassed, especially when he realized that he had no reasonable excuse to offer them. "I've been busy," he finally said, which was true, but it felt like an empty phrase. "Anyway, there's the same distance the other way."

Rick laughed and put an arm around his shoulders, pressing him against his side. "No excuses here." Then he released Daryl. "But I suppose there's a reason for this visit, right?"

"Is the sheriff talking?"

"Well, I made a living out of it for a reason."

Daryl looked at Tara, but she seemed to have lost her tongue somewhere between Alexandria and Hilltop. Then he turned his attention to Michonne who watched him with curiosity.

"Uh… yes, we need to talk."

Rick nodded, not bothering to look surprised, then gestured toward the house. Of all the houses in the community, theirs was the one that had suffered the least damage during the war, just a handful of spoiled planks and some broken windows, which hadn’t been too difficult to repair. Rick had never admitted it out loud, but Daryl knew there was a part of him that felt guilty about it. Moreover, Daryl imagined that Rick had wished that the house had collapsed in an act of condemnation, because he considered that, after all, he hadn’t suffered the consequences of the confrontation with the saviors as much as others who’d found themselves surrounded by enemy fire, losing absolutely everything.

Once the four settled into the kitchen, Daryl tried—with some sporadic and brief intervention from Tara—to explain everything that had happened since Paul and Tara had met Peter Bennett, as well as the latest failed mission near his camp. Of course he had omitted some minimal but important details, aware that some of them were precisely the ones that could have brought more light into the darkness of the stupid decisions they had made. Still, he hoped that Rick and Michonne would refrain from asking too many questions.

"Do you really think they would be foolish enough to travel all those miles to attack you?" Michonne questioned when Daryl stopped talking and Rick seemed too deep in thought to ask anything.

"They’ve done it before, he said it himself. Coming to Hilltop is a risk, yes, but he didn’t waste his time there, he talked to almost everyone, and who the fuck knows what kind of information he got from them. I’m sure he studied the colony, and probably has found some way in."

"You should know your weaknesses better than him," Rick said then.

"Yes, we should."

"Is it really possible that they could come here or The Kingdom?"

"Maybe it’s unlikely, but we shouldn’t underestimate them—you shouldn’t lower your guard, just in case."

Rick accepted the advice with stoicism while Michonne exhaled loudly. "Apart from that, is everything else okay at Hilltop? Maggie, Hershel—we haven’t seen them for months now, I'm sure the baby has grown a lot."

"Everything’s fine, the two are fine."

"What about Jesus?"

Why did he act as if the question surprised him? "He, uh—" He almost kicked her leg when Tara cleared her throat beside him. "He… he's fine."

Well, that had been a failed attempt to sound convincing—he might as well have waved a flag with neon words saying ‘my relationship is a mess right now’, and the brief pause that followed confirmed this assumption. Daryl tried to make his brain work to come up with something else to add that wasn’t so fucking personal, but fortunately, Tara drew all the attention to herself by rising from the chair.

"Since we're done here, I'm going to go check on the rest. Is Rosita on duty?"

"Not until tonight," Michonne said, also standing up. "I'll go with you. Will you stay for dinner?" she asked Daryl as she placed both hands on Rick's shoulders.

"I'm gonna visit Aaron; I'm sure he'll convince me to stay there."

Daryl supposed Michonne hadn’t been expecting anything else, because she turned and followed Tara out of the house immediately. Nerves settled in his stomach as he looked back at Rick who was watching him closely.

"Is everything alright?" Rick cocked his head in that way he used to do when he didn’t want bullshit for an answer.

Daryl knew that nothing he could say was going to satisfy him, and for some reason, he didn’t feel comfortable talking about this with him. Rick had enough problems to deal with already—he didn’t need to endure his idiocy on top of it. So he thought the best option was to attack with another question. "How are Carl and Judith? Negan?"

It took Rick long enough to answer for Daryl to feel the need to shift in his chair.

"Negan can go to hell—Carl and Judith are fine," he said. "Judith started to talk, you know? But her vocabulary has a worrisome amount of swearwords. I guess I'll have to be more careful about who spends time with her while I’m working."

Daryl couldn't help but smile. "That ain't fair, I should be the one teaching her those things."

Daryl was convinced that he could almost hear _'but you haven’t been around much’_ about to erupt from Rick's lips. He wouldn’t have blamed him, and although he was sure the thought had crossed his mind, Rick smiled and leaned back in his chair, relaxing his shoulders.

"I'm afraid there are still a lot of obscenities left for her to learn, and I assure you, I'll cut off the tongue of whoever dares to teach her. Carl is helping with the patrols, not that I like it, but I can’t keep him from it either."

"He’s growing fast."

"Too fast."

There was obvious distress in his voice, but Rick said nothing else. Daryl thought this was a good moment to go before Rick could ask more questions. "I'm gonna see Aaron." He tried not to look back while he approached the kitchen door, but Rick's voice stopped him halfway.

"Daryl, you know you can talk to me too, right?"

Daryl turned to look at him and saw something in Rick's eyes that he didn’t think he had ever seen in them before, or maybe he had, but not exactly addressed to him.

"I know, I haven’t been a good friend," he continued before Daryl could even sort out his thoughts. "I know I wasn’t always there when you probably needed me the most, but you can talk to me, Daryl."

"We all had to deal with a lot of shit, Rick. You've been there for me as much as I’ve been there for you. It has nothin’ to do with you—you're my brother, we’ve had to go through a lot together. I don’t want to bore you with some couple crap."

Rick hesitated for a few seconds, then got up and squeezed his shoulder with one hand. "Whatever it is, you know—"

"I know, don’t worry about it, just make sure no idiots—other than the regular ones—enter those gates."

Rick smiled again. "Poor them if they do."

 

***

 

Daryl was about to go around the house and glance through the windows after knocking for the second time and waiting for more than what he considered suitable for his patience. Then he heard a noise, then a curse, and finally the door opened.

He had to check twice to recognize the man appearing in front of him, but by the way his eyes opened and his eyebrows rose, it was clear that Aaron didn’t have the same problem. In fact, he was so shocked that he dropped whatever he was holding in his hands.

"Now, it was about time, you bastard," he said and put his arms around him.

Daryl returned the embrace; though he didn’t overlook the ease with which he did it. Aaron had lost a lot of weight.

"What the hell is that beard?" Daryl asked as they pulled away.

"Damn, it has to look really bad if _you_ , of all people, complain about it." Aaron ran a hand through the beard that covered a large part of his face.

"You look like a dog is sleeping on your chin, but you can do with your face the hell you want. I only came here looking for a place to crash."

"You know what? After all this time, I should tell you to fuck off, but considering how cold it is, and that I'm a good person deep down, I'll be nice and let you use Paul's room." Aaron bent down to pick up the slotted spoon that had fallen off and stepped aside to let him in. "And I say Paul's room, because he's the only one who has used it in the past few months. In fact, I haven’t even changed the sheets since the last time he was here, but I guess you won’t mind."

Daryl found himself laughing, however, after his stomach stopped shaking with the sudden impulse, it twisted in pain when he remembered the stupid fight they'd had only a few hours ago. He cursed under his breath, hoping Aaron didn’t hear him, and went into the house.

"What the fuck happened here?" His voice sounded unexpectedly loud, but everything was a complete mess. There were objects and furniture everywhere.

"I've been redistributing the whole house, I started with the top floor and I couldn’t stop."

"Do you also suffer from _Compulsive Reorganization Disorder_?"

"The what?"

"Named it myself, Paul does it too when he is nervous or bored, or when he doesn’t want to hear me."

"I'm not nervous, but I’m definitely bored, and I thought some things would look better placed differently. Now, earn your dinner and lend me a hand."

Daryl didn’t protest, but he really had to wonder if Aaron was doing this because he was bored as he had said or there was something else. The truth was that during the exorbitant hours it had took them to relocate everything, Aaron hadn’t stopped talking about the latest gossip in Alexandria. Who was with whom, who had stopped being with whom, who wanted to be with whom—if that was all the important things that had happened there, then he could imagine why his friend was bored to death, and somehow he preferred it to be the case, because every time Paul returned from Alexandria, he didn’t hide his concern for Aaron and the hard time he was having overcoming Eric's death. Daryl didn’t mention anything about it, but still watched him closely.

Hours later, and after updating Aaron with the past events, they were sitting at the kitchen table and having dinner. The fireplace was burning at the back of the living room; it felt warm and welcoming, and Daryl wondered if Paul had thought of building one in their new home, he didn’t remember him mentioning it, and he didn’t think he'd seen it on the plans, but of course he didn’t understand those damn drawings either. He grumbled through his teeth. Who cared about that anyway, it was not like this was the right time to think about such things, after all.

"Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?" Aaron's voice pulled him out of his thoughts immediately.

"Already did."

"No, there's more, something personal. What is it?"

"Nothing, what makes you think something is wrong?"

Aaron glanced at the plate of vegetable stew, which Daryl had barely touched, and then looked pointedly into his eyes again.

"I'm gettin’ by." That was a half-hearted answer, Daryl was more than aware of it. Aaron said nothing, though, and focused on his plate as he finished his dinner.

"Okay, yeah, Paul and I ain’t doin’ well right now—we fought. We said some fuckin’ ugly things to each other, and now he's gone to The Kingdom, because he says that we need some time apart. What the fuck does that even mean? We don’t need _time_ , we need—we need—I don’t know what the fuck we need, but—you know what? I don’t care—he can do whatever the fuck he wants, even if he decides to stay there for a year. It's his fucking problem, not mine."

Daryl just stopped spitting all those words because his throat suddenly felt dry, and he almost finished his beer in one gulp. While he set the bottle back on the wooden table, Aaron watched him with keen interest.

"Why did you fight?" he asked quietly.

Daryl thought for a moment. "’Cause I beat up that asshole I told you about, after promising that I wouldn’t go near him."

"Why did you promise that?"

"Because he asked me to."

"And why—"

"Aaron, stop."

"Okay. I'm just trying to understand what’s going on. I want to help you."

"You can’t help me, and apart from me being a fucking asshole, there ain’t nothing more to understand. I don’t know what would’ve happened if Maggie and Tara hadn’t appeared there, and Marcus and Mandy, and Alex—fuckin’ hell I also hit Alex. And now Paul is pissed off at me, and I’m pissed off at him because he’s pissed off at me."

"Well, it's obvious to me that what you need is to sit down and talk."

"We can’t! All we've done these past days is to throw all the shit we had in hand at each other. Have you ever seen Paul pissed?"

"No, not really, and it's hard to imagine."

"Exactly! It caught me so off guard that I didn’t know what to do other than act like a stupid idiot, and now he says we need _fucking_ time apart."

"Maybe he's right."

" _Of course he is!_ Because the damn fucker is _always_ right." Daryl stopped that verbal vomit when he heard Aaron’s laughter. "What the—"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, it's just—look at you, you're so in love… who would’ve thought."

"I ain’t—fuck you."

But that only made Aaron laugh even harder, and Daryl didn’t bother to stop him. He knew he was behaving like a child.

Aaron cleared his throat, forcing himself to regain some self-possession. "Look, everything will be—"

"Don’t say it. I swear I'll stick my head in that fireplace if someone else says that damn thing ever again."

"But you know it's true, right?"

Yes, he knew, because after all, the other half of this relationship was Paul Monroe, and Tara was right, he was the most eloquent and fucking reasonable man he'd ever met. How many times had he wanted to punch that innocent face of his just for that in the beginning, back when they’d still antagonized each other? Moreover, he already missed him, how pathetic was that? Especially here, sitting in front of Aaron.

"M’sorry," he said in a weak whisper.

"What for?"

"I'm botherin’ you with all this shit when you—"

"When I what? When I lost my boyfriend? You know what I hate the most about all this, Daryl? People getting the idea that by avoiding the subject I won’t think about it. Well, let me tell you something, I think of Eric every single day, and yes, I've had a few horrible months. I know I've lost weight and this beard makes me look like a beggar. But I won’t pretend that everything is okay so that the rest of the world doesn’t feel compelled to feel sorry for me. I don’t want their fucking compassion; I just want to be left alone and mourn in fucking peace until his absence doesn’t hurt this much anymore. Because it will pass, I know it will, Daryl, in the same way that your problems will be solved, for better or worse, but everything will be over at some point. I'm ready for that moment to come, and you should be too."

Aaron stood up then, quietly. Daryl was not sure if he was expecting any kind of response from him, but he hoped not, because he really didn’t know what to say. Luckily, Aaron seemed to be aware of it, and picked up his plate as his face relaxed again.

"Let’s clean up. I found a box with old photos, although I’m not sure how ready you are to see Eric and me, one with long hair and the other with Afro hair."

"You kiddin’."

To his satisfaction, Aaron laughed, and it was sincere, full of that life he’d seemed to have lost over the past year. Daryl couldn’t help but smile back.

"Oh, no, believe me, let me get some beers, we'll need to get drunk to get over it later."

 

***

 

Aaron hadn’t lied; the photos had been embarrassingly funny. They’d laughed and drunk to the point where his stomach had hurt, although he wasn’t sure if it was because of the unexpected but welcome distraction, or because of the alcohol. Either way, it felt good to be there with Aaron after all this time, talking about something else that wasn’t about all the problems he was dealing with. After all, there would always be time for that.

The night was surprisingly quiet and Daryl found himself so tired that his mind fell into a catatonic state the moment his head pressed against the pillow, and he didn’t wake up until the brightness of the day managed to pierce the thin skin of his eyelids. It wasn’t snowing in Alexandria, but the day was still cold and damp, and the clouds didn’t seem to want to stop reminding them that winter was very close.

They dedicated the morning to reorganize the garage. Then, Daryl met with Rick who informed him about the little readjustments they had made for the guards. If Peter's group decided to approach Alexandria, they would be prepared.

In the afternoon, Tara and him took the car and headed back to Hilltop after Daryl promised that he wouldn’t let so much time pass for his next visit.

Tara insisted on taking a different road, for old time’s sake, she’d said, and they ended up stopping at a ruinous gas station. They knew they weren’t going to find anything there; the windows were broken and they could see that the place had already been looted. They entered anyway, because the uncertainty was enough to make the adrenaline run through their veins like a drug.

Back in the car, Tara tried hard to hold back her laughter as Daryl tightened a handkerchief against his arm to keep the blood from staining everything. Yes, he’d had one of the most stupid accidents he could remember, and even though it was not a big cut, it bled as if his jugular had been sliced. He would never listen to Tara ever again; he was too old for this. Yet he was pleased with himself, because during all those hours, he hadn’t thought about Paul and their fucking quarrel. Well, at least until this very moment when he tried to convince himself that this time apart was no different from the other times Paul had left the colony.

Bullshit.

It was totally different, because now, the reason behind it was precisely to be apart from each other.

Daryl was about to ask Tara to turn around and go back to Alexandria, but he didn’t. Hilltop needed them; if Peter and his people decided to come, the colony would be the target for sure and they had to be prepared.

He needed to focus on that, he could deal with everything else any other time. In a few days, Paul would come back, they would talk, and everything would work out, and if not, well, then fuck him. Daryl was a grown man, even if he didn’t behave as such sometimes. He had more important things to worry about, which he did until Hilltop's high walls surfaced on the horizon and his stomach twisted violently, threatening to come out of his mouth.

After leaving the car, he was tempted to enter the stables to check if Dama was in her box, but he didn’t, because he didn’t care. At least that was what he reminded himself over and over again as he crossed the distance to the hospital trailer. He hadn’t wanted to go there, but Tara had insisted that Harlan or Alex should take a look at the cut.

Lizzy was leaving when he arrived and informed him that the doctor was not there and that Alex would take care of him. The waiting room was empty, but the office door was closed and he could hear voices coming from the other side. He tried not to pay too much attention to what they were talking about, but he had nothing else to do and the conversation wasn’t really interesting, 'it was really cold', 'winter was going to be a hard one', and something about a problem with the windows in Alex’s trailer that seemed to be worrying the nurse.

When the office door finally opened, Earl Sutton came out touching the hand that he’d had bandaged until then. The man greeted him warmly before leaving. Alex sat at the table, distracted, taking notes. When he finally noticed him and lifted his head, Daryl was about to step back, surprised at the sight of the cut and bruise still visible on his mouth and a part of his chin and cheek. Luckily, Alex seemed almost as surprised as him.

"Hello… what can I do for you?" he said after a brief pause, adopting his friendly and professional tone.

Daryl stood there, prolonging an uncomfortable silence as he watched the other man. He had never thought about it, about the fact that Alex had been with Paul, had touched, kissed, and slept with him—well, he had actually thought about it, but he had done it from an almost competitive point of view, as if the two had been fighting for the same trophy, which in a sense was ridiculous. Things just had taken their own course, and yet, Daryl had always seen Alex as a threat when the man had only been friendly towards him. He’d never cared to think about what Alex must have gone through with all that had happened. Daryl knew that he still loved Paul, he didn’t need him to confess or tell anyone—he could see it in his eyes. Yet, Alex had gotten out of their way without putting up a fight, he’d just resigned.

He wanted to hate him, but Alex wasn’t making it easy. Daryl didn’t really know why he felt this aversion towards the man, or maybe he did. Sometimes, he couldn’t help but wonder why Paul had chosen him. Alex was smart, sociable, and he helped people. He was supporting them and he would do anything to protect Maggie and Paul, and he was even polite to Daryl and was treating him with respect. He was also young and handsome—though Daryl would never admit that out loud. In fact, he was already mentally slapping himself just for thinking about it.

He blinked, startled, when he heard Alex clear his throat.

"Yeah, eh… I cut my arm, I’m sure it's nothin’ but—"

"Sit on the stretcher, I'll have a look."

Alex studied his biceps, pressing his fingers against his skin as Daryl pretended not to feel any pain.

"It's not a big wound, but it's deep. You'll need a couple of stitches. How did it happen?"

"I hit the corner of a metal stand."

As if it were the most normal thing in the world, Alex nodded and didn’t ask any more questions. Then he began to work, cleaned the wound and prepared everything necessary to suture it. Daryl watched him closely, his mind navigating on his own, imagining Alex and Paul together. Why did he have to torture himself like this? He tried to look away, but his eyes kept returning to the nurse. If Alex was aware of the scrutiny he was being subjected to, he was either not realizing it or hiding it very well. Daryl pictured what Paul must have seen when they’d been together: his matted blond hair, his blue eyes, his pink full lips—this was ridiculous. He decided to focus on the cut and the bruise that blackened his white skin, and that he himself had caused.

"M’sorry," he said then, almost unaware that the words had come out.

Alex looked at him with a frown. Daryl raised his left arm to point to his mouth, but dropped it as soon as Alex asked him to stay still. There was a hesitant silence after that.

"I…"

"If you mean the cut and the bruise I have because I hit a door, don’t worry, it doesn’t hurt anymore," Alex cut him off, talking as if he really believed what he was saying.

"Has any idiot swallowed that?"

"Of course not, but at least it prevents them from asking more questions."

"You don’t have—"

"Daryl, it was an accident, let's not make a fuss about it, okay? I know you didn’t do it on purpose, at least not at _that_ precise moment."

"I’ve never wanted to." That was a blatant lie, and the wrinkles that formed in the corners of Alex's eyes seemed to say that he thought exactly the same. "Well, maybe at first."

Alex laughed. "I also wanted to punch you if that makes you feel better."

It didn’t, but it was fair, so he didn’t say anything else, and let Alex work quietly.

 

***

 

Cat was waiting for him at the door when he finally left the hospital trailer half an hour later. He imagined the cat had spent the night outdoors, and it wasn’t as if the animal couldn’t cope perfectly on his own, but building a cat flap suddenly felt like a catchy idea, especially for the prospect of keeping his mind busy.

The night was not as pleasant as it had been in Alexandria; sleeping in the trailer alone, and in this bed, had never been easy, and it was even less right now. So in the early hours of dawn, he was already up and making a hole into the door.

"See, hairball? Now you can come and go whenever you like."

Cat looked at him as if he wasn’t aware that he was talking to a fucking cat. Then, the moment there was enough space, the animal ran outside.

"Ungrateful bastard."

The rest of the day passed uneventfully, Daryl chose not to go to the outpost, he was not in the mood and anyway, it was important for the group there to start organizing themselves. So he spent his time fixing minor flaws in the trailer. He also visited Tammy, who invited him to eat, but avoided Barrington House as much as he could; he was not yet prepared to face Maggie. The person who did cross his path though was Gregory; the man was passing by Earl’s workshop when Daryl came out of the stables after brushing and feeding Sirius. Gregory acted as if he hadn’t seen him, although he began to walk faster. Daryl intercepted and cornered him against one of the wooden shacks.

"Dixon, I didn’t see you. How's it going? I've heard that—"

"Shut up, I don’t wanna hear your bullshit, but you're gonna listen to me. If I see you or one of your minions come closer than ten feet to Maggie, I swear I'll rip your tongue and hands out and feed them to the pigs. Did you hear me?"

Gregory had suddenly lost all the color in his face. "I never, I don’t know what—"

"Told you to shut the fuck up. Ten feet. I don’t want to see you breathe the same air as her or her baby. No weird plans, you hear me? I’m watchin’ you, one word out of place and yer a dead man. Made myself clear?"

"Eh… yes, yes, of course."

Back in the trailer, time became slow and tedious again, another night not being able to sleep. Not even the fatigue managed to give him a few hours of rest, and by dawn, he was in the kitchen making some coffee that could help him bear with the hours ahead.

The sun came out for the first time in days, and it felt warm and pleasant as he drank from his mug, sitting on the front steps of the trailer. Hilltop was beginning its routine work already, and from there, he saw Alex coming out of his trailer and then going back inside. He remembered what he’d heard two days ago in the waiting room, and a few minutes later, he was in front of his door, carrying all his tools. When Alex opened it, he almost choked on whatever he was chewing on.

"Daryl, uh, hi… do you have any problems with the stitches?"

"Nah, s’alright. I know you have problems with the windows here, I could have a look, maybe I can fix them."

His eyebrows arched more and Daryl could have sworn that he saw a red trail on his cheeks. Alex hesitated for a moment, but finally stepped aside.

"Sure, sure… come in."

Daryl came in, but stopped abruptly when he noticed that there was someone in the kitchen. Wes. This had to be the first time that he’d seen the man this close. He was tall, he could tell that even with him sitting there, his long legs stretched out under the table while he watched him with his green eyes and a poorly masked curiosity. He could be in his forties, and he might be considered an attractive man if you ignored his small ears and the fact that his blond hair did nothing to hide his more than incipient baldness.

"Hello," he said then, looking between Daryl and Alex.

Daryl didn’t bother to answer, but at his side, and for whatever reason, Alex shifted uncomfortably. "Daryl says he can fix the problem with the windows."

"Is there a problem with the windows?"

Alex frowned. "I told you the other day."

Wes got up, leaving his mug in the sink. "I don’t remember, and anyway, I have tons of things to do." He walked past Daryl, giving him a look that could only be defined as defiant, then grabbed Alex possessively and kissed him on the mouth like he was trying to mark his territory.

Daryl nearly rolled his eyes at this display. He definitely didn't like this guy, and he remembered that Paul had told him that he’d never liked him either—he could see why.

"Which windows do you want me to check?" Daryl interrupted impatiently.

Alex pushed Wes aside; the man could have lighted a fire with the intensity of the blush that lit his face.

"I'll see you later." Wes opened the door, and left them alone.

Alex could barely hide his embarrassment, rubbing his cheeks as if that were going to help him to make the blood leave his cheeks again. "Eh… well, I actually think all the windows need to be checked, but I don’t want to abuse your generosity, do what you have to do. The biggest problem is that I can’t seem to be able to warm the trailer and winter is close."

"I'll check them all out."

"Okay thanks. I have to go now. Will you be alright on your own? "

"’Course."

"Okay…" Alex took his coat and briefcase, then opened the door. "Daryl, if you’re trying to apologize for what happened the other day, there’s really no need, I've already told you—"

"Do you want me to check the windows or not?"

"Yes, yes, of course. I'll see you later."

The windows were a fucking mess, but he was not surprised; theirs had been exactly the same. By the time Alex returned to the trailer, he had managed to seal the boards of all of them.

"Thank you for this, really, I appreciate it."

"Okay… just tell me if this works, but you should know that you also have a condensation problem with the wood stove. I can come and check it some other time."

Alex looked at the stove as if he’d just told him that it could only work with unicorn blood. "Uh… sure, thanks again."

The work had done him good to keep his mind busy, so much that he’d hardly thought about Paul, and that night, he felt so tired that he finally managed to get some sleep. The next day however, he got up with Paul's words ringing in his ears, 'a week maybe' _,_ that had been what he’d said. Today was the fifth day, and although he tried not to fool himself, he was feeling nervous. He hadn’t been able to eat anything, not even drink something. He didn’t know what to expect from Paul's arrival. Knowing him the way he did, he would probably come back with a fresh expression on his face, acting like nothing had happened. But knowing him as he was _supposed_ to know him, he had never expected to see him as he had seen him the night he had beaten up Peter Bennett.

He was scared—there was a good chance that Paul would come back thinking that the best thing for them was to put an end to their relationship, and that led him to consider what he himself thought was best for them. He hadn’t thought about it, deep down, he had hoped that everything would return back to normal by itself, as it always had done. But what if it didn’t? He needed to go hunting, that was what he needed; get out of Hilltop and spend his time as he had done when none of this had existed in his life—not Hilltop, not Paul, not even the saviors.

When the colony’s gates opened at noon, his stomach leaped to his throat, and then dropped down to its place with a sharp squeak when the person crossing them came from The Kingdom, but was definitely not Paul. It was Randall, one of the Crazy King’s emissaries. Daryl heard him say to Eduardo that he was bringing a message to Dixon and Rhee, and in less than a second, he was so close to him that Randall had no choice but to step back to look him in the face.

"What’s the problem?"

"Where's Rhee?"

"In the mansion," Eduardo answered.

"Let's go there, then; message is for her, too."

"You can tell me here," Daryl insisted.

"But—"

"Give him the message, man," Eduardo pressed.

"Okay—because of the bad weather, one of our sheds has collapsed. Jesus is helping with the cleaning and rebuilding tasks. He asked me to come and let you know that he will be absent more days than expected. He also asked me to let him know how things are here—his exact words were 'make sure Dixon hasn’t burned the colony down. _'_ "

"Well, tell him that everything's okay and that he can fuck off."

Daryl didn’t wait to see how far Randall was able to raise his bushy eyebrows, but he could hear Eduardo ask him not to take what he had said literally. Paul could do whatever he wanted, if he was going to spend more days out, he was not going to stay here waiting for him like an idiot either.

It was still exactly what he did, and by the time the night came, he was in one of the watch points smoking and drinking with Tara. He knew he was not being fair, Paul had only offered to help as he always did, that's how he was, and Daryl knew it, just as Paul knew that Daryl was the stupid damn bastard he was being right now. He supposed that, in the end, they had no choice but to deal with it.

He spent the next two days on his own, hunting, and for the first time in weeks, he felt at peace, embraced by the bare branches intertwined over his head, the smell of the damp ground, and the sound of the snow under his feet.

Back at Hilltop, and just before the sun finally disappeared behind the hills, he left some of the game for Crystal to store in the pantry. Moments later, walking down the narrow stone-walled corridor that led to the stairs, he smiled, he’d had a good time out there, and he had managed to erase some of the tension that he’d been carrying around. Having something new to eat was also a plus, and he wondered what Paul would think of it. He dismissed the thought quickly though.

Then he heard something coming from the old boiler room. He recognized those sounds, and he knew he didn’t want to look, but the door was ajar and although there was not much light, he could see them perfectly—Wes, with his back against the wall, head thrown back and eyes closed, while his hands clung tightly into the woman’s hair whose face was buried into his crotch. Daryl didn’t know her name, but he knew she lived on the second floor of Barrington House, and that with Milton, she was taking care of the house.

His appetite disappeared all of a sudden, and a few hours and a pack of tobacco later, he found himself sitting next to Tara at one of the watch points—blood bubbling in his veins, but surprisingly enough, his mind was blank.

"Seriously, man, let it go." Tara's voice hit him like a mallet in the middle of the silent night. "You're going to end up going crazy, and you're going to end up driving us all crazy, too."

"The hell are you talkin’ about?"

"This anxiety of yours. You know that Jesus will come back in a couple of days, you both will talk—because you will, because he is just like that, and everything will be—"

"Ain’t that," he defended himself, even managing to look offended. "Ain’t _just_ that. I've seen something today, and I don’t know what to do—don’t even know why I give a shit."

"What did you see?" Then, Tara let out an excited sound through her mouth. "Is it some juicy gossip? Come on, tell me."

"You think it’s funny?"

"Man, it's my night on duty, I'm fucking bored."

"It ain’t funny."

Tara struggled to transform her expression into a serious grimace. "Okay. Now, tell me."

Daryl thought for a moment. "I know I'm gonna regret this—don’t tell anyone." Who the fuck cared, anyway? "What would you do if you saw someone with another someone that ain’t the someone who is supposed to be with _that_ someone?"

Tara blinked a couple of times, then lowered her head slightly but raised her eyebrows. "Do you mean that you've seen someone cheating on someone?"

Daryl brought another cigarette to his lips and lit it. "Yeah."

"Who?"

"Doesn’t matter, just answer the question."

"Well the answer is quite complicated, because it would depend a lot on the situation and the people involved."

Did he mind if the world knew that Wes was an asshole? No, not at all. "It was Wes and that woman who always wears her hair pulled up."

"Wes? You mean the guy who has something going on with Alex?" She thought for a second. "You saw them talking or you saw them being friendly—"

"Oh yes, I suppose she was friendly checking the seam of his fly."

Tara covered her mouth with both hands to muffle a strange laugh that was half surprise and half amusement while Daryl watched her with the same enthusiastic expression of a stone.

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry. _Fuck_ , you know what? I feel sorry for Alex, he seems like such a good guy—but back to your question, I don’t know, man, do you really care?"

"I guess not."

"Then let it be. I don’t know, I suppose that if it were Jesus—and before you throw me over the walls, I would never think that Jesus would do something like that to you—personally, I would go and talk to him first, and depending on what his reaction is, I might tell you later. But you two are my friends, I love you and I care for you. That Wes dude, have you ever talked to him? I don’t think so, and Alex… well, Alex is nice, but you two are not exactly friends. I think it's not worth it to get yourself into this. So, yeah, I would let it be, it's their problem."

Tara was right, yet early the next morning, Daryl was in front of Alex's door with the stove as his excuse. What happened next could be considered as one of the most unnecessarily embarrassing moments of his entire life. Alex knew about Wes after all and Daryl had asked him why he was with him then; Alex's response, "I felt lonely", didn’t make him feel any better—for some reason, it made him feel guilty. And if that hadn’t been stupid enough, Wes had shown up minutes later with his arrogant hypocrisy, acting all jealous about Daryl being there. Ironic. Everything got out of hand when Wes tried to provoke Daryl into a fight, but Alex ended the conflict resolutely by throwing Wes out of the trailer.

How the hell had he gotten into that mess?

Tara made fun of him for the rest of the afternoon.

At the end of the day, he came to the conclusion that the best thing he could do was to leave the colony again. So he decided to go with his men and stay at the outpost for a few days. The construction works there would keep him busy, and they did so during the first day and part of the second. During the third, he wanted to climb up the walls already. He even considered going back to Hilltop, taking Sirius, and going to The Kingdom. Only his pride stopped him.

By the end of the fourth day, he returned to Hilltop with his group. It was almost impossible to ignore some of the funny looks he was getting, but he didn’t stop walking until he reached his trailer. His body froze when he closed the door behind him; it only took him a few seconds to realize that something was going on. It was warm. Cat was at his usual place on the couch, and beside him, the stove was lit. His stomach began to do strange things even before he took the three steps separating the front door from the small kitchen. On the table, he found four bottles of wine and a couple of boxes with wine glasses inside.

He turned quickly, almost tripping over himself when he heard the toilet cistern. It took no more than two effusive strides to peek out—his heart pounding in his throat. Then the door opened, and for a moment, he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

"Carol?"


	15. 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to give credit to [AbigailHT](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AbigailHT/pseuds/AbigailHT) because I didn't the first time he appears—Tom's character came out of her mind, thanks for letting me use him ♥ He is slightly mentioned in this chapter but you'll see more of him later on :)

5 MONTHS AGO.

 

Hunting had always been a relaxing exercise for Daryl; teaching it—not so much. That afternoon's session had been a complete and utter disaster, as well as an irritating waste of time. In any case, and to his satisfying surprise, his mood hadn’t been affected by it. It was probably because he’d finally been able to use the crossbow that Paul had given him for his not-birthday, feeling as if he’d recovered a part of himself that he’d lost somewhere along the way during a time he preferred not to remember.   

The night had fallen a few hours before he came into the trailer and the smell of shampoo was the first thing that filled his nostrils. Paul was lying on the couch with his back to the door, using the dim light of a lamp to read a book while Cat seemed to sleep placidly over his belly.

"I’ve been out there all the damn day, wallowing in dirt, and you’re here, chillin’."

"Life sucks sometimes, love, but we've been working all day too. The big difference is that we know how to optimize our time better," he muttered, as if he wasn’t even paying attention to what he was saying.

Daryl didn’t bother to give an answer, so he turned and went into the shower—not because he wanted to, if for him, he would drop himself on the bed in all his dirty clothes, but he was hungry. Plus, he knew Paul wouldn’t let him touch him until he let the drain pipe swallow all the dust and smell of sweat and gasoline.

Dressed in some pajama pants and a clean T-shirt, he headed for the kitchen. Cat had moved from the couch to the table where he was curled up into a ball now.

"He lives like a fucking king."

Paul chuckled and was about to say somethig when Daryl pushed the book from his face and bent down to kiss him.

"Don’t," he warned when he sensed that Paul was about to take off his reading glasses.

"Seriously, your fixation with the glasses is one of the most unexpected things," he said, re-adjusting them on his nose. "But there are people with weirder fetishes, so I guess I shouldn’t complain."

"Ain’t a fetish," he said, patting Paul’s shoulder for him to make him some room. "I like how you look in them, they make you look… smarter?"

"Even more?"

"Cocky little shit."      

Daryl settled himself on the couch, letting Paul lie back on his chest.

"What are you readin’?"

"20,000 Leagues Under the Sea."

"Fuck, sounds boring, and anyway, didn’t you read it already?"

"I would have if all of you didn’t interrupt me every time I tried."

"What is it about?" he asked, putting his hands on Paul's shoulders, pressing the muscles with his fingers. Paul suppressed a moan and Daryl smiled.

"You joking? This book is one of Jules Verne's most famous novels."

"Ain’t had the pleasure of meeting him." His fingers began to work more carefully, moving to the back of Paul's neck.

"You’re such a jerk. What was the last book you read?"

"Not sure—you know, if there ain’t no pictures, I ain’t interested."

"Well, in _that_ case, I should bring you some comics the next time I go out."

"Comics? You mean dicks in tights."

"Not all comics are about superheroes. But you're right, I'd better take a look at the kid’s section."

"Asshole," he said, pulling Paul's hair aside, smelling the soap emanating from his skin. "Read to me," he whispered ardently, lips brushing Paul's ear.

Paul couldn’t control the gasp that worked its way up his throat this time. Daryl smiled satisfied, but also grateful that Paul couldn’t see his face.

"What are you doing?" he asked when Daryl placed both hands on his chest, pulling him even closer.

"Relaxing after a long, hard day. Reading helps you, maybe it’ll help me too."

Paul hesitated, probably too busy following the course of Daryl’s right hand as it descended dangerously and paused on the waistband of his gray sweatpants.

"Okay…" he said, clearing his throat, trying to sound composed, but failing miserably. " _For several hours the Nautilus drifted in this brilliant tide, and our wonderment grew when we saw huge marine animals cavorting in it, like the fire-dwelling salamanders of_ …"

Daryl lost interest even before the words stopped vibrating in his ears. He let his hand go down a little further, crossing the invisible border of his sweatpants, and rubbed his crotch unashamedly, smiling when he felt that Paul was already responding.

Paul shifted slightly, clearing his throat again, as he tried to focus on the printed letters. _"—then smaller fish appeared: miscellaneous triggerfish, leather jacks, unicornfish_ —seriously, I can’t—"

"Keep readin’," Daryl demanded gravely, his hand already slipping inside his pants.

"Does this really turn you on? You're weirder than I thought."

Again, Paul went for a serene and forced tone, but his agitated breathing betrayed him.

"You sure it's _me_ who's gettin’ all turned on?"

"That's a completely different matter."

" _Sure_ —keep reading, then."

Paul swallowed and pressed his lips together to muffle any involuntary sound that might come out of his mouth that wasn't a faithful representation of what was written in those yellow and worn pages.

" _And a hundred others that left stripes on this luminous… atmosphere in their course. Some magic lay behind this_ —fuck."

Daryl struggled not to laugh out loud; he kissed Paul's burning cheek while he kept stroking his cock. He could feel him getting harder slowly under the touch of his fingers. Paul threw his head back against his shoulder and closed his eyes.

"Keep reading."

"You have to be _fucking_ kidding me."

"Come on, Monroe, show me some of that _self-control_ of yours ya keep shoving into my face, and keep readin’."

Paul picked up the book and looked at it as if he were only seeing blank pages, shifting uneasily while Daryl didn’t stop moving his hand.

"Looks like you had a good day," Paul said in between breaths.

"Was a shitty day, actually." Daryl kissed his neck. "But had a good time with your birthday present. Guess this is me thanking you."

"I was quite satisfied with your _thanks_ the other day." He was barely able to utter the last words.

"You complainin’?"

"Cut my tongue if I ever dare to— _shit_."

"Keep reading."

Daryl kept stroking him in a steady but painfully slow rhythm. It was astonishing that Paul still picked up the book again. He narrowed his eyes with great effort, trying to focus on all those words.

" _Some... magic lay—"_ He took a deep breath and moaned, _"—Some magic lay behind this… dazzling_ —shit, you know what? Fuck Jules Verne."

And he tossed the book to the floor.

 

 

* * *

 

TODAY.

 

"Are you going to stand there like an idiot all day, or will you come here and give me a hug?"

When Daryl put his arms around Carol, he couldn’t contain himself anymore—all the anger, frustration, and disappointment exploded like a balloon that couldn’t bear the pressure any longer, transforming all those feelings into the tears of a desperate man. Carol squeezed him tightly, although she sounded surprised as she tried to calm him down, whispering in his ear.

Moments later, Daryl sat on the couch, rubbing his face, erasing the traces of tears with the same clumsiness of a child. Carol offered him a glass of water and took a seat in front of him.

"Wow, it seems to be worse than I thought," she said while Daryl still tried to regain his composure.

Then, he lifted his head, feeling like a complete idiot, embarrassed by this outburst of weakness.

"Did you speak to him?"

What kind of stupid question was this? Of course Paul had talked to Carol, after all, hadn’t that been the main reason for him to go to The Kingdom, to inform them? _We need time_. He was being such an asshole, acting as if everything revolved around them when there were so many other things to worry about, and yet, his mind couldn’t stop reliving the events of the past two weeks. Fuck, perhaps the world didn’t revolve around them, but there was no doubt of them being the ones responsible for many of the obstacles that had grown along their way.

"Yes, Jesus told us what happened here." Carol spoke as if he hadn’t been submerged somewhere in his subconscious. "Although, I had the feeling that he wasn’t telling us everything, and it looks like I was right. You know? He is good at hiding his feelings, but not _that_ good; you can’t really fool a fooler, right?"

Carol smirked, and Daryl managed to relax a bit. He ran his hands over his still damp face again, and then his eyes settled on the boxes and bottles of wine on the table.

"Did you bring those?"

"No, I came with the person who did."

His heart jumped to his throat and his body tensed instantly. Daryl looked around as if there really were a chance for someone to hide inside the small trailer.

"He's not here," Carol assured calmly. Had he been that obvious? "Seeing that you weren’t here, he went out to give Eugene something for a… radio?"

Despite everything, the relief he felt was enormous. He didn’t want Paul to see him like this, all depressed and stressed out, it was embarrassing and pathetically sad enough to do so in front of Carol. But he also felt some comfort in knowing that he’d finally returned. Suddenly, all the anger that had been accompanying him for days disappeared into a silly memory that made him feel even more flustered than he already had been.

Carol took the glass of water he hadn’t even touched and put it on the table.

"Are you going to tell me what's going on?"

And he did. He told her everything, omitting only the real connection between Peter and Paul, but leaving that aside, he didn’t leave a single detail out. From the moment Paul had arrived with Peter, and the promise he had made to him, to the moment he had lost his temper. He also told her about the second agreement he’d reached with Paul—that he hadn’t followed either—and their meeting with Evan and his sister.

He stopped there.

His hands began to shake. He could still feel the cold steel of the crossbow glued to his face, the snowflakes falling hard around him with a constantly deafening calm. Only the shots and Evan’s desperate sobs had managed to penetrate his ears. Nothing else. The arrow had flown with a terrifyingly silent precision, piercing the child's temple with extraordinary ease. Evan had opened his mouth, but no other sound than a dull cry had come out, while in a reflex act he’d pulled the trigger. The bullet had been lost in the air, reverberating against his eardrums as Evan’s body had fallen and sunken motionlessly into the snow.

He could almost feel it here, in the trailer, the same silence, so many miles away, yet it had wrapped around them in a haunting calm after all the stupid chaos that had happened.

Carol watched him closely, her expression so composed that, for a moment, Daryl wondered if she had heard a single word of what he’d told her.

"Do you think he blames you for the child's death, that he thinks of you differently now?" she asked then, and the question made his stomach twist.

"Don’t need him to blame me for anythin’—I killed that kid. And I don’t know, have no fucking idea what the hell he sees when he looks at me." His throat closed, causing the words to slip out with difficulty. "He probably just sees a dick who doesn’t know how to keep his word, and doesn’t know how to fucking control himself, or think for a second what he is doin’. I didn’t when I pulled the crossbow’s trigger, or when I threw my fist into that motherfucker’s face."

Carol grimaced with her mouth, as if she were chewing on those words, then she exhaled, got up, and sat down beside him on the couch.

"Do you have a cigarette?"

"Don’t usually smoke in here."

Carol looked at him blankly. Well, yeah, it was true, who cared, Paul was not here after all. He reached into the pockets of his jacket and took the cigarette pack out, offering one to Carol and placing another between his own lips. They smoked for a few minutes in silence, though Daryl had the feeling that this was just the prelude to a conversation he was not quite sure he was in the mood for.

A moment later, Carol blew out the smoke noisily. "I'm going to tell you something and I'd appreciate if you could keep it to yourself." Carol waited until Daryl, unable to hide his confusion, accepted with a nod. She didn’t speak straight away though; she took a couple of long pulls before doing so: "I killed Lizzie."

Daryl toyed with the cigarette in his mouth slowly, as if wondering who the fuck Lizzie was, but of course he remembered, and he was not going to deny that he’d always suspected that something murky had happened, even though he would never have felt the need to inquire further into the subject.

He turned in his seat, just enough to watch Carol who was impassive, looking straight ahead, as if that ridiculous kitchen was the most fascinating thing in the world, although her eyes were clearly elsewhere.

He waited, more patiently than he thought himself capable of.

"Yes, I did it…" she continued, as if she hadn’t stopped talking at all. "And it was not an accident, you know? Nor was it a reflex act. I pulled the trigger fully aware of what I was doing. Lizzie had killed Mika, she had killed her sister because she was sick, because she knew that, sooner or later, she would wake up again, and that seemed to fascinate her in an unhealthy way." Carol didn’t turn, her face remained straight, but Daryl could see the pain growing in her eyes and at the same time her voice became more and more unstable. "She was a danger, she had been to her sister and she was for us all. If it had happened now, maybe I would have tried to help her and take care of her, but back then, with Judith—there was no other solution. And unlike you, I had time to think about it—she was a threat—so I made a deliberate choice. I _had to_ , and I did. I chose our lives over hers, and I shot her."

She paused, she seemed like she was about to add something else, but she didn’t, as if she’d suddenly realized that there was nothing more to explain. Only the tears streaming down her face showed a part of the emotions she’d hidden inside until now.

Then, Carol took a deep breath, wiped her face, and turned to look at him before she spoke, "Do you see me differently now, Daryl? Do you think I'm a bad person?"

Did he? He wasn’t even sure what to think, even though he understood why Carol had told him that story. She'd had to make a decision, and she'd done it, just like him, though in his case, he hadn’t had time to think about it. In only a second, he’d seen the aftermath in his head: Evan pulling the trigger with his trembling hands, the bullet piercing through Paul’s chest, his body crashing into the snow, and the damned red color splashing everywhere. Yes, in that split second, he’d made his decision, because he’d had to.

"No," he finally said.

"We always have to choose, Daryl. Perhaps now our decisions are much more crucial, but don’t forget that if there is something that this new world has given us both, it’s the freedom to make them—do you want him back? "

"Yes." The answer was immediate.

"Then stop whining and go look for him. I'll make something for dinner, I'm starving."

  

***

 

His footsteps ceased to be confident as soon as he stepped inside the mansion, and he blasphemed quietly when he saw Maggie there—he’d almost forgotten how much he’d tried to avoid her over the past few days. She was at the end of the hall, having what seemed like an intense conversation with Eduardo, but she turned around when she heard the door. Maggie looked him up and down as if she was really surprised to see him there, then she smiled.

"I'm glad to see you've decided to stop hidin’."

Daryl was about to protest, but his brain was so focused on all the things he wanted to say to Paul that it didn’t react quickly enough, and it was too late to make up an excuse that none of them would believe anyway. Yes, he’d been hiding from Maggie, who cared now?

"I've decided to grow up," he said with a bored tone. "Have you seen Paul?"

"I haven’t seen him for a while—he was heading to the library earlier, maybe he's still there," Eduardo answered.

He walked down the hallway with a determination that only lasted until he saw the double door at the back; one of them was open. Daryl rubbed his chest, begging his heart to stop behaving like a crazy neurotic fucker, but that attempt failed. Paul was just right there, sitting in front of Eugene, asking questions, and listening to the answers intently.

All he needed was a quick glance at him to come to the conclusion that he and Carol had arrived early in the afternoon. Yes, he could figure out something as simple as that just by looking at Paul for a few seconds, something he hadn’t found out after nearly a half-hour conversation with Carol. His hair, though dry, looked clean, as if he’d showered not long ago. His clothes were clean, too, and he looked fresh and rested, while Daryl was nervous, dirty, and sweating like a moron, despite the cold.

He had to stop himself before asking them what the hell they were looking at when he realized that both were watching him, probably waiting for him to do or say something instead of standing there like an idiot.

"Can we talk?" His voice sounded harder and more serious than he'd intended.

"Act like I'm not here," Eugene said, waving a hand carelessly, and returning his attention to the junk he had in front of him.

Paul didn’t say anything for an uncomfortably long moment, but then he turned to give Eugene a smile before rising and patting the table in a friendly gesture.

"Let me know if it works or not."

His voice, oh fuck his voice, as soft and calm as he remembered it, was like a balm that permeated his whole body—

Shit, this was getting way too ridiculous to his comfort.

He turned and waited for Paul outside; when he joined him, he started to walk again, not letting Paul say anything, despite having seen his lips move. Daryl walked down the hallway, unsure of what he was doing or where he was headed. He simply walked until he reached the great hall and then started up the stairs. Paul followed in silence. They reached the second floor and went to the other side of the mansion, to the door that led to the stairs of the viewpoint. An intense shiver welcomed him as they finally reached Barrington House’s highest point. They hadn’t come back here since the saviors had attacked Hilltop and killed Owen, and so many others he preferred not to think about now. They hadn’t been here since Paul had sneaked away to drown his sorrow in a handful of Whiskey bottles and had confessed to him what was tormenting him so much. Damn… he’d seen him cry, had let him cry, and he, Daryl Dixon, had assured him that he wanted to be with him. Right here, at this place.

Paul stopped by one of the tall, narrow windows, watching the colony as night fell over it, but Daryl could see it in his face; he knew he was thinking exactly the same.

Daryl tried to think of something to say, which was ironic after all. _Think_ , yes, now he tried to do it when nothing seemed to make any sense in his head.

"Where are you gonna sleep tonight?" he asked out of nowhere, even he was surprised to hear his own voice.

There was no immediate response though, it was as if Paul's presence was a mere illusion and Daryl had to wonder if this would be indeed nothing more than a dream.

"I haven’t thought about it yet." Paul sounded absorbed, as if he were elsewhere with his thoughts.

"Come back to the trailer. _Please_ , come back, I—fuckin’ hell. How pathetic did that sound?" He turned to one of the windows, just as Paul turned to look at him.

"What?"

"I ran this conversation millions of times in my head, and hadn’t imagined it like this: me fucking begging."

He heard Paul chuckle; at any other time that would have irritated him, but now that sound felt so good.

"I also thought about this conversation a lot, and I hadn’t imagined it like this either. I’m not complaining, though."

"Of course y’ain’t." _Fucker_ , he added only in his head, because he chose not to press his luck for the moment.

"I'm sorry, Daryl," Paul said suddenly with a serious voice, and added with a whisper, "I regret everything that's happened, everything I’ve said and done."

"No, I'm the one who's sorry, I acted like a dick, and instead of listenin’ to you, I listened to _him_. I should’ve ignored him, should’ve been stronger, but I lost my shit and—"

"Daryl, no. Let's not go there anymore. It's done, let’s forget it, okay?"

Daryl agreed, and yet he didn’t move, his eyes were fixed on the horizon where the orange stripes mingled with the dark blues as they gave way to the deepest black. Was this all? Was this really it? This easy?

"I thought you’d hate me after this, hate the person I am." Paul made a noise, as if to speak, but Daryl continued, "I try to be better, I swear I try, but I ain’t sure if I’ll be able to change."

"I don’t want you to change, Daryl, where did you get that idea from?"

"I—"

"No. Look at me."

He didn’t want to, but did it anyway, because it was obvious that Paul wouldn’t keep talking otherwise.

"I don’t want you to change, Daryl, never did. I'm sorry if you got that idea from some of the things that I said, because it's not what I meant. I fell in love with the person you are, and I _know_ who you are. We’ve both made mistakes, you're not perfect and I'm not either. Let's accept it as it is, and move on."

Moving on, yes, that sounded good.

"Are you hungry? Carol’s cooking dinner."

"The truth is, I'm starving."

  

***

 

"When are you going to show me that outpost that has left our patrolmen so amazed?"

For a few minutes, the evening passed as if nothing had really happened and everything were back to normal. Daryl tried to adjust to that apparent calm, but there was still something that didn’t seem to fit. Carol was the one leading the conversation, probably to avoid the uncomfortable silence, even if all three tried to act naturally.

"Tomorrow, if you’re up to it," he replied between bites of the chicken stew that Carol had cooked.

"Good. Tom hasn’t stopped talking about how well-placed it is."

"Tom? Ah, yes, that arrogant fucker."

Paul laughed suddenly, and that had been practically all his involvement since they’d sat down at the table.

"Sounds about right," he said.

"You know him? You never mentioned him to me."

"Tom? Why should I?" Paul didn’t take his eyes off the plate while he was eating.

"Because he acted as if you both were best friends."

"Tom is friends and enemies with almost everyone," Carol said. "But he is like that, extroverted to the extreme; you take it or leave it, he doesn’t really care. Anyway, Paul, are you coming to the outpost tomorrow?"

Paul lifted his head from his dinner for the first time. "Me? Uh well… I’d like to, but—oh God, I should feel ashamed, shouldn’t I? Not even once did I take a moment to go have a look at the improvements that have been made there."

 _You should_ , Daryl was about to say, but he didn’t, because they were supposed to be trying to normalize the situation, trying to forget, he told himself. But, after all, wasn’t that what should be normal between them? Being able to say whatever they wanted, knowing that the other wouldn’t take anything personal? It looked like he had no other choice but to accept that everything was still too fresh, and that it would take him time to forget the image of Paul entering the trailer about to explode with fury.

He took a mouthful of meat and chewed on it unenthusiastically. This was not what he had imagined. The conversation? He had expected hundreds of ugly words, sour tones, and accusing glances—not that he was complaining, which he wasn’t, because all he had wanted, from the very first moment Paul and Tara had left Hilltop, was to have him back. And here he was, sitting next to him and it still felt as if Paul were miles away.

After dinner, Paul accompanied Carol to the mansion to show her the room where she would spend the night. Daryl sat on the couch by the warmth of the stove while Cat ate his dinner. He felt strange, lost, and he didn’t understand why. He tried to organize his thoughts, but he felt confused, as if pieces were missing.

The door opened minutes later; Paul came in and sat down on one of the chairs in front of him.

"Carol is gonna sleep in my old room," he said, just like that. "It was weird, going in there."

He laughed softly, and Daryl watched that almost alien smile that didn’t go beyond the corners of his lips.

"You can sit here, I don’t bite."

At any other time, he knew Paul would have looked at him intensely, would have laughed and made some cheeky comment before rising from his chair. This time, he got up in silence, and the smile that had molded his mouth seconds before was gone.

He sat on the couch sideways, one knee bent and one arm resting on the back as he watched him expectantly, waiting for Daryl to say something. Maybe this would be a good time to talk, have a real conversation and find out what it was that didn’t feel right. Instead, Daryl leaned over and kissed him. Paul was shocked, so much that he even tilted his head back, although not enough to break the kiss. He had surprised him—damn, since when had Paul startled when he’d touched him? But he knew the answer.

He should stop, but he didn't, because Paul moved his lips and responded to the kiss, although it was a cold and soulless kiss, as if Paul was feeling compelled to reciprocate or compensate him in some way.

This was not right. They didn't pull away immediately, however, as if both were afraid to face the reality that would hit them later.

Daryl couldn't help the frustrated snort when they finally broke apart. He wanted to look anywhere else, but it was impossible for him to look away from Paul, though it was hard to know what he saw in his eyes before he closed them and sighed heavily, pressing their foreheads together.

"I'm sorry." His voice was just a whisper.

Daryl pulled away from him, and Paul must have seen something in his face, that even he himself was not aware of, because he quickly grabbed his hands, preventing him from getting up.

"Listen, Daryl, it's not you, okay? It's me. It's all this shit in my head. I just need some time. Please. I’m only asking you for some time."

Daryl would have liked to tell him that he would have given him the moon if he’d asked for it, but it was so fucking cheesy that he kept his lips tight.

Paul stood up, still holding one of his hands. "You look tired, why don't we go to bed? I think we both could use some rest."

They could use a lot of things, that was for sure.

"Gonna stay here a little longer." Daryl wished Paul hadn't noticed the disappointment in his tone. If he did, he didn’t show, he just let go of his hand, said goodnight in the most neutral way, and headed for the bedroom.

When Daryl joined him only a few minutes later, Paul was curled up on his side of the bed, he could barely see his face beneath the layers of sheets and blankets, but Daryl was sure that he wasn’t asleep.

Neither of them slept that night. The next day, Paul was the first to get up and leave the trailer and when he returned, he began to work in the kitchen. Meanwhile, Daryl lay in bed until he considered that enough time had passed before Paul could come to see if he was still alive or not—or maybe he wouldn't do it today. He was tempted to wait there and see, but he finally decided against it and got out of bed.

After a quick shower, he dressed in his usual outfit and headed for the kitchen. Paul was putting a steaming mug on the table when he appeared.

"Good morning, I've made you some coffee and Brianna offered us some pancakes again."

"You still lookin’ like this?"

Paul looked down at his clothes, he was wearing a plain sweater and his gray sweatpants. "I'll get dressed in a minute, I didn't want to wake you up."

 _You knew I was awake._ "If you say so."

"Daryl—"

"S’okay. Thanks for the coffee," he said, sitting down at the table.

There was a sound coming from the catflap then, Daryl looked at the couch and saw that Cat had run away. Smart bastard.

"Daryl."

For a moment, he refused to look up, but he finally did without putting down the hot drink. Paul had folded his arms, leaning on the counter.

"Did something happen with Wes?"

He almost choked on his coffee. "What?"

"Did something—"

"Heard you the first time, why do you ask?"

"Because he cornered me, telling me, and I _quote_ , that I should tie down and muzzle my boyfriend, emphasizing _boyfriend_ in a weird way."

"He can fuck off—what did you tell him?"

"That, if he thought it were such a simple thing to do, he should try it himself."

Daryl lifted the mug to hide the treacherous smile that was about to stretch the corners of his lips.

"Are you going to tell me what happened?"

Luckily for him, someone knocked on the door and Paul went to open it. It was Carol, and a coffee and a few pancakes later, all three sat in the 4x4 on their way to the outpost.

He was nervous, which didn't make sense; it was just a stupid house in the middle of the forest, nothing else. Yet, he was still anxious, because since the first day everything had started to look like a relatively safe place, he would have liked Paul to have come and seen it and given him his opinion. Now he was here, in the back seat, ready to judge the work he was so proud of, and he didn't know what to expect.

"The location is really good," Carol said as they got out of the car.

"It is, we were lucky to find it. We want to build a garage there," he said, pointing to one side of the house. "For now, the cars have to sleep in the open."

"Mmhmm…" she answered absently. "When I was told it was a ranger station, I thought it would look like a cabin, but it's a nice building."

Daryl nodded and unconsciously looked at Paul who stood a few feet away from them, studying the wire mesh that surrounded the area.

"We’re thinking of building a stone wall, but didn’t have the time for it, and anyway, we have to wait until winter’s over."

Paul looked at him, as if he was surprised that he was addressing him, then made a movement with his head and approached them without saying a word. Daryl's nerves shot up for some stupid reason, but he tried to keep his expression as impassive as he could and led them into the house.

"There's not much to see here," he said. "There's the kitchen and dining area, we've also set up some couches so that these lazy bastards can take a break." That earned him some protesting grunts, but none of them stopped what they were doing. "There was also an office and two rooms. We left the rooms as they were, just blocked the windows and placed some bunk beds in them, and turned the office that faces the back of the house into a watch point."

He took them there, they had covered the window with a metal plate that had a glazed hole in the middle, big enough to look outside, but difficult to pass if someone wanted to use it to sneak into the house. Carol made a complacent sound whereas Paul continued to watch in silence.

Daryl cleared his throat. "Upstairs, there are four windows, two facing east toward the road, and the other two facing west. I'll show you."

They followed him up the wooden stairs to the attic; it was an open floor with a low gable roof and no more space than to store some boxes. Only the spaces of the two small dormer windows on either side prevented the place from having a serious claustrophobic feeling.

"Have to agree, it's a great outpost, well located and well-prepared," Carol concluded after inspecting the four small watch points.

"There's still a lot to do, but we're workin’ on it."

Daryl couldn't help but glance at Paul, who was still listening and observing, but not saying anything. He was just there, with his arms crossed, pacing around the rooms, analyzing everything he saw, and Daryl was beginning to lose his patience, to the point where he thought of shaking him and forcing him to spit out whatever it was that was crossing his mind.

Once back downstairs, they went outside again and Daryl showed them around. The solar panels that already had been there when they had arrived were supplying the whole house with electricity. He also showed them the basement, where they had built a safe armory, in fact, it was the first thing they had done, Daryl informed them. They also had a pantry full of provisions, and another storage space for more supplies.

"Now I understand why Tom wants to find something similar," Carol said later, during the meal. "It needs some work, but the location is good."

"Yes, it is." Daryl scanned the table, trying to avoid Paul, who sat beside him, until his eyes settled on Dante. "What are you doin’ here? Is your ankle okay already, shouldn't you be resting?"

"I've been coming here for the past few days…"

"Really? Haven't seen ya."

"I've noticed—anyway, we come by car, and sitting in a chair looking out of a window is not what I would call _hard work_. I swear that if I have to stay locked up at Hilltop for more days, I'll end up jumping from the viewpoint."

"Don't do it, too much work to clean up—where are Tyler and Marcus?"

"They went out to patrol."

"They should've come back already."

"Who knows, maybe they found the trail of another deer and they’re making fools of themselves like a few weeks ago. You need to teach them how to hunt."

"I tried already, and I ain't gonna waste another minute of my time on it."

It began to snow by mid-afternoon, so they decided to stay there and return to Hilltop in the morning.

"Has the Crazy King stopped making eyes at you?" Daryl asked reluctantly as they prepared two more bunk beds. "What's goin’ on there?"

Carol laughed. "Nothing's going on, at least for the moment—you know what? After what I've had to endure in my life because of a man who treated me and my daughter as if we were a piece of shit, I'm letting myself enjoy the attention, for once. Besides, Ezekiel is a good man, he trusts me, and respects my opinions."

"If he dares—"

"Oh, come on Daryl, don't behave like the protective brother, I don't need it. I know what I'm doing, and I can cut off his balls myself if I need to."

Night fell, and after dinner, Daryl took refuge in one of the attic watch points. Paul had spent most of the afternoon outside with Mandy, and although they had returned for dinner, they hadn't exchanged a single word. His mind was going crazy and his heart was beating so hard that he wanted to punch his chest to force it to stop.

He was lighting the third cigarette when the wood began to squeak behind his back. He didn't turn to look, only shifted slightly when a bottle of beer appeared in front of him. He picked it up after a moment's hesitation, though his eyes didn't move away from Paul, who stood before him, leaning against the window.

He didn't say anything for a while, just looked at him, and that didn't help the state of anxiety that was consuming him. Then, Paul reached out and took the cigarette from his mouth to take it into his. Paul never smoked normal tobacco unless there was something occupying his mind. He took a couple of puffs and then placed the cigarette back between Daryl's lips again.

"I'm so proud of you," he finally said after drinking from his own beer. "And it's not because I didn't know that you were capable of doing something like this, but because I'm convinced that you yourself didn't think you could be able to."

Daryl wanted to say something, though he was not sure what—probably to protest because that's what he always did when someone dared to say something nice about him. In any case, Paul kept talking before he could say anything stupid.

"And I know you won’t believe me when I tell you this, but you’re a good leader too. I can see that in everyone’s eyes here, the amount of respect they have for you."

"That ain't true."

"It is—not even Tyler would dare to contradict you in a complicated situation. They _trust_ you."

"Unlike you."

He hadn't realized how the words had sounded until he saw the change in Paul's face.

"I _do_ trust you," he said in a forcefully composed tone.

Daryl snorted. "First, you run away, and now you don't even let me touch you. Is it because of Peter? Is it because of what I did to Evan? What the hell is it?"

"It's everything, Daryl. It's—wait! Fucking hell, are you… what happened there was an _accident_."

"I killed a fuckin’ kid!"

"Don't say that—"

"But it's the truth!"

"It was a difficult situation, it was—shit, Daryl, I would've done the _same_."

"No, you wouldn't have done it, you didn't even dare to knock his sister out, for fuck’s sake!”

"That's different."

"No, it ain't. All this—"

"Daryl, stop." Paul cut him off, then crouched in front of him, placing his hands on his thighs. "I would have done _exactly_ the same." He was speaking slowly and carefully, emphasizing each word. "If I have to choose, it will always be you, Daryl."

"Then why aren't you here with me?" he whispered.

Paul frowned. "I _am_ here."

"No, you ain't."

Paul ducked his head, closing his eyes. "I will be," he said quietly, then looked back up again. "Just give me some time, everything will be back to normal soon."

Paul stood up, placing his hands on either side of his face, and Daryl felt the heat racing back through his body and his breath churning when Paul leaned forward as if to kiss him, but hurried footsteps on the stairs interrupted the moment. Paul pulled back just when Marcus appeared there, struggling to catch his breath.

"You have—you have to— _fuck_." He took a deep breath. "You have to go down right now."

They ran down to the first floor where everyone in the dining room was surrounding Tyler as he seemed to be explaining the situation agitatedly.

"The hell is goin’ on?"

"We've been following a trail," Tyler revealed. "People—we're convinced, and they're a big group, maybe about ten, I don't know, maybe more. We've followed them until it was too dark and we couldn't see shit anymore. But we're sure they were heading to Hilltop, nothing else is around here, and… it makes sense."

Of course it made sense, dammit, yet two weeks didn't seem long enough. Daryl turned to Paul as if convinced that he would start organizing everyone immediately, instead, Paul watched him expectantly. Then, Daryl glanced at the group, all of them had their eyes on him.

"Okay, take the guns, lock the place up, and head to the cars, we’re not wasting a fuckin’ second. Now!"

Everyone began to run in a surprisingly organized way, and only a few minutes later, they were all in the cars. The snow, which kept falling, no longer mattered, but something was not right, they had only managed to move a few yards towards the entrance of the fence when both cars stopped.

"The fuck’s happenin’?"

Daryl and Paul got off the 4x4 with Carol, Tyler did the same from the car behind them.

"It can't be." Paul crouched next to one of the tires.

"They've cracked the fucking tires!" Tyler exclaimed.

The rest of the group got off the cars quickly while Daryl rubbed his eyes, this couldn’t be happening.

"What are we going to do now?" Mandy asked.

"We’re going on foot," Daryl answered hastily. “And we’re gonna warn Hilltop as soon as we're close enough to use the radios.”

"On foot? I can't walk!" Dante protested.

"You stay."

"I can't stay, I—"

"Dante, do as you're told," Paul cut him off, his voice hard and sharp.

Dante looked at the rest, seeking for help, but no one said anything.

"But—"

"For God's sake, let's not waste any more time!" Carol pressed.

"Take only the essentials," Daryl urged. "Anyone who thinks they can't do this stays here with Dante, I don't want delays or whinings halfway. If anyone else's gonna stay, speak now." There was only silence in response. "Good. Let's go."


	16. 14

9 MONTHS AGO.

 

The sound of the horses' hoofs bounced with a constant echo filling the silence of the empty streets. The sun that shone at that hour of the afternoon felt nice and warm despite it being early February. The elderly people at Hilltop, however, assured that this wouldn’t last long and that the snow would be dyeing everything in white again very soon.

"It's nice," Paul said after a while. "Being able to ride across the town in peace."

"How long do you think it’ll last?" Daryl answered in a bored tone.

They were a few miles north, in a town that passed unnoticed from the road, hidden among the large forests that surrounded the area. Its location on the map had also looked so remote that it never had crossed Paul’s mind to come. Surprisingly enough, despite its size, the town had many stores and places to scavenge, and the trip was also a welcome distraction from the construction work that had started at Hilltop.

They continued riding down the street for a few more yards until the quiet evening was interrupted by unnatural sounds rising above the pleasant song of the birds. Daryl gave him a pointed look, but Paul shrugged with indifference and got off Dama when the two walkers crossed their path. Killing them was no effort at all for him, and a few minutes later, he was back on his mare.

"See? You can enjoy the calm again, love."

Daryl growled something incomprehensible and they continued their way through a couple more streets, watching all the buildings which seemed to be a part of an abandoned movie set.

"It would be interesting to be able to join forces with the other settlements and wipe the world from the trail of death, don’t you think? Go back to the cities and start over again," Paul said.

"Have you been smokin’ grass again?"

Paul smiled innocently as his gaze met Daryl's. "Maybe a little. But I mean it, at least a part of it. We can’t hide behind the walls forever. The Romans didn’t conquer the territories around the Mediterranean Sea simply by drinking wine and organizing orgies all day."

"Doesn’t sound that bad to me," Daryl said, studying the map in his hand.

Paul chuckled. "No, of course not. Not sure if I like the idea of sharing you, though."

Daryl grinned and put the map away after a glance around. Paul was about to ask him where they were headed when something else caught his attention. In one of the attached houses—the only one with a lively red brick color—was a boy leaning against the only window next to the front door. He couldn’t be older than six, though it was obvious that he’d stopped aging for some time now. His small bony hands struck the glass with rage and force while his eyes, empty of any kind of consciousness, watched their every move.

Paul hadn’t realized that he’d stopped in the middle of the street until he heard Daryl approach him; Sirius snorted impatiently.

"It's funny," Paul said. "I'm talking about conquering the world again, but the truth is that there are things I still haven’t gotten used to."

His voice was heartfelt, and the carefree expression from a few seconds ago turned into one of bitterness. Beside him, he thought he saw Daryl nod, but he didn’t say anything.

A few minutes later, they came across three more walkers. They didn’t even bother to get off the horses this time, clearing the beings out of the way effortlessly.

"What are we looking for?" Paul finally asked.

"I think this is the first time you agreed to go out with me without melting my brain with questions."

"True. I suppose I was impatient to take Dama out after returning from a four-day-trip. I felt bad for not being able to take her with me to The Kingdom. You happy, girl?"

Dama moved her relaxed ears, responding to Paul stroking her neck.

"So, you only came ‘cause of the horse."

"Of course, did you think I came because of _you_? Sometimes you're so delusional…"

Daryl shook his head, but didn’t turn around in time to hide his smile.

"Well, are you gonna tell me what we’re doing or not?"

"Lookin’ for a yarn store," he replied casually.

"A yarn store? Do you have a hidden talent that I know nothing about?"

"It’s for Tammy—little Glenn is about to be born and Tammy said the other day that she would’ve liked to knit some clothes for him, but she didn’t have anything to do it with."

Paul couldn’t help the huge smile that formed on his lips. "That's really nice, from both of you. Does she know you're here though?"

"No." Daryl pulled the map out again. "Think we're close."

And it was true; around the next corner was the store that Daryl had been looking for. Forcing the door open didn’t cost Paul much time and the inside of the shop, except for the layers of dust, was intact. It wasn’t surprising, considering the fact that people could take all the manufactured clothes they wanted for free now.

The store wasn’t big and had shelves covering each of the walls, filled with woolen bundles of every imaginable color.

"Fucking hell, don’t even know where to start," Daryl protested, grabbing a yarn with the most intense yellow color Paul had ever seen.

"Are you going to take that one?"

His voice must have given his distaste away because Daryl put the yarn back to its place immediately, as if he’d burned himself.

"Ain’t sure—that's why you're here anyway."

"Ah, now I understand. You’ve asked me to come along to give you my tasteful opinion."

Paul began to move around the store, studying the contents of the shelves, without ignoring the price tags—the apocalypse had its perks, that was for sure.

After a while, he’d gathered a few books with knitting patterns, different knitting needles, and plenty of yarns on the counter.

"I suppose this will be enough. What do you think? Any particular color you want to add?"

"Me?" Daryl asked, as if he hadn’t understood the question.

"Of course."

"Does it matter? Can’t you just pick up some of them things and that's it?"

"No, ‘cause in a couple of years, when little Glenn wears one of his knit sweaters, you'll say ‘Look, do you see that strip of color there? I chose it.’"

Daryl considered his words for a moment, then approached the shelves, studying the tangled wool, and began to pick up yarns with completely random colors. Paul laughed but didn’t say anything. They put everything in their backpacks and left the store.

Outside, it was getting darker slowly, and the last faint rays of sun were no longer enough to mask the winter breeze.

"Let's find a place to spend the night," Daryl suggested as he mounted Sirius.

Paul grabbed Dama’s reins and examined the street. "Before that, I'd like to do something."

He climbed onto the mare and set off before Daryl could ask any questions. They rode in silence, passing the walkers they had killed earlier. Then, Paul made Dama stop in front of the red brick house. The boy was still there, as if his damaged brain had not only given him an eternal life, but also endless patience.

Paul studied his cloudy, emotionless eyes. Sirius shifted uneasily to his side, passing part of his discomfort on to Dama who breathed heavily and shook her head.

Paul turned and saw Daryl watching him with a serious expression. "It ain’t your duty," he said calmly.

"I know, it's just… it's so unfair."

He thought of Abbie, she’d been reckless, but she still hadn’t deserved such an early and awful end. This boy was even younger than her; though he seemed to be the same age she’d been when everything had started. He couldn’t help but wonder what had gone wrong for the kid to end up trapped in this house forever.

"Life ain’t ever been fair," Daryl said, bringing him back to the present.

He was right, but Paul still got off Dama and led her to a place he considered safe enough while he heard the muffled blows and screams of the child in the background. Then he walked to the front door and Daryl joined him seconds later, knife in his hand, telling him that he’s ready with a simple nod. Paul nodded back and began to handle the lock carefully.

The nauseating smell engulfed them as soon as Paul opened the door. They both covered their faces immediately; Paul with the bandanna he wore around his neck and Daryl with his forearm.

There was a narrow corridor with stairs to the upper floor in front of them. To their left was an arched doorway that led to the living room and the kitchen.

The boy was next to the window, and it didn’t take him long to notice their presence. A dead body was lying on the small peninsula in the kitchen area. Daryl approached it carefully, even though it was obvious that it couldn’t be a threat anymore. The man, who’d been almost completely consumed by the years, had a cracked skull and there was a gun on the granite counter, just beside his hand. Dried and blackened blood was splashed across most of the surface and furniture.

Paul sighed and turned his attention to the boy—the poor creature was nothing more than a bag of bones having trouble dodging the coffee table and the pair of armchairs blocking his way. Paul didn’t wait for him to reach them; he took one of his sharp knives and pushed it easily through his skull, ending his unconscious suffering instantly.

After wrapping the body in one of the living room’s curtains, Daryl left the room, and Paul lost sight of him for a long time until he appeared in the small backyard where Paul had just buried the remains of the boy.

"The house next door’s empty," he said. "I put the horses in the garage, we can spend the night there."

Paul nodded in silence.

 

***

 

"Why?" Daryl asked suddenly.

The night had fallen already and they were in the living room of the next house, sitting by the window, eating some bread and cheese.

"Why what?"

"Why did it affect you so much? I mean, yeah, it was a kid, and it's unfair, but we've seen this before."

Paul had been asking himself the same question. "I don’t know. I suppose I suddenly remembered everything we have left behind—and I don’t mean what we’ve lost here, in _this_ world, I’m talking about all those people who, who knows whether for better or worse, didn’t have the opportunity to see what the world has become."

Paul glanced at the window that led to the same street they had ridden across a few hours earlier. There were a few minutes of silence before Daryl spoke again, "I didn’t leave anything behind. My parents died before all this shit, and my brother? He was by my side ‘til he decided to behave like the asshole he was and received what he’d been asking for." He snorted then. "Funny that he died doing the only good thing he’d done in all his fuckin’ life."

Not even the harsh words could hide how much Daryl missed his brother. He bit down a piece of the bread reluctantly and then stared back at Paul, as if waiting for him to say something. But he didn’t, because he wasn’t sure if there was anything to say at all.

Then, Daryl leaned back in his armchair and crossed his legs on the windowsill. "You've never told me about your parents."

Paul shifted in his seat, Daryl's words catching him completely by surprise.

"Did they know about your job?" he continued, perhaps aware that he was not going to get an immediate response.

"Yeah, they knew… even though they didn’t know what department I was working for exactly." He thought of all the times that he’d made them believe that his job only consisted of paperwork, sitting in a quiet office. "It's kinda ironic," he added, absently. "They taught me to be honest and show myself just as I am—they knew I was lying to Ben even though they weren’t aware of how much. They always respected my decisions, you know? But that was something they didn’t support at all." He laughed at the bitter memory. "Family dinners were a problem as soon as work came up in conversations, I always tried to divert the subject while my mom stared at me like 'seriously, son? Haven’t you told him yet?' Oh God, if she’d known…"

"Were they—" Daryl cut himself off, as if he needed to think of a better way to word his question suddenly.

"Yes, they were alive when it all started. I talked to my mom before I took the plane to Morocco, they were in Indiana, they had gone on a spontaneous trip." Paul noticed Daryl's lips moving, but he kept talking. "I don’t know if they were able to make it back, I didn’t talk to them ever again. When all the chaos was happening, the communications were really bad and all I could think about was contacting Ben and making sure he was there when I—"

He stopped there. Daryl knew the rest of the story. It was unnecessary to keep opening old wounds; sometimes it was better not to remember.

"Do you think they're still alive?" Daryl asked a moment later, somewhat confused by his own question.

"Yes," Paul answered immediately, maybe a little too forcefully. "I mean, if people like Gregory made the cut, why not? My dad used to watch that show… _Survivorman_ , you know? I hope he learned something from that crazy Canadian."

Paul paused and a sad smile appeared on his lips.

"He would’ve actually liked you, you know? He was… peculiar, but he had a big heart. I'm sure he would’ve loved you to teach him hunting, too."

"I’m sure he would’ve done a lot better than you."

Paul couldn’t help but laugh. "I have no doubt." Then he turned his gaze back to the night landscape. "Maggie is so brave," he said softly, as if the words were only in his head. "Bringing a new life to this world… but we must keep going, don’t we? We _have_ to."

Daryl tilted his head thoughtfully; then he said merely in a whisper, "Yeah, we have to."

 

* * *

 

 

TODAY.

 

It was difficult for Paul to keep track of the time they had been walking. It was important for survival to be able to locate yourself in time and space, and in any other circumstance he’d have been able to do it. He’d learned that long before the turn. Tonight, however, his mind was as agitated as the big snowflakes that swirled relentlessly in the air, and which seemed to be the only element capable to avoid the darkness that otherwise surrounded them.

The sickening silence was only disturbed by the erratic sound of their breaths. A state of nervousness that became even more uncontrollable and uncertain when none of the communications with Hilltop had worked.

The freezing atmosphere contrasted with the fury of the adrenaline pumping in his veins—this was happening, it was really happening, and although Paul tried to keep as calm as possible for the sake of the group and whatever they found on the way, there was still a voice in his head that kept repeating over and over again that everything was his damn fault.

He should have let Peter die, or he should have abandoned or killed him when he’d been in a position to do so. Instead, he had let him go, and in exchange of his, they had taken the lives of two innocent people.

A noise coming from the forest that flanked them on both sides of the road startled the whole group. They stopped and formed a line immediately. They waited, their weapons ready, until the grunts of the dead became clear.

Paul broke away from the group with a loud and angry sigh and stepped into the woods. The walker, so deteriorated that it was scarcely possible to distinguish any features, walked slowly and awkwardly toward the road. Paul killed it quickly and the wailing ceased to interrupt the calm of the night.

He stood there for a moment, surrounded by trees while stubborn flakes, able to dodge the bare branches, covered his hair and shoulders. He listened carefully, but he heard nothing. If it were a large group, as Tyler and Marcus had suspected, they either had to be deeper in the woods or way ahead of them. This thought made him shudder.

Once back, and without the need of any voiced order, they set off again, separated into two groups covering both sides of the road. They walked for what seemed like endless hours while night and snow closed around them, causing the disorientation to increase with every passing minute.

"We're lost," Mandy said suddenly.

"We ain’t lost." Daryl's voice was low and hoarse. "We're following the road. Keep walkin’."

"We should’ve arrived already, how long have we been walking?"

"Mandy, we're doing okay, just—"

"No, we're not! Nothing's okay!" Mandy snapped at Marcus. "They aren’t responding to the radio, we don’t know what’s—"

Daryl, who’d begun to move among the group without anyone even noticing it, grabbed Mandy by the arm. Marcus stepped forward, ready to intervene, but Paul stopped him.

"Why didn’t you stay back with Dante?"

Mandy hesitated for a moment. "I want to help."

"Yer not helping us whining! I made it pretty clear back at the outpost—no delays midway."

Mandy ducked her head, embarrassed; Paul had to hold Marcus even tighter.

"I'm scared…" she said then, lowering her voice.

"We all are." Daryl's tone had softened, but still sounded just as firm. "We need you with us, you're strong and smarter than any of your fellow idiots—Hilltop needs you too, so hold that damn rifle tight and keep walkin’."

Mandy obeyed almost instantly, as if that outburst had only been an illusion. Daryl released her and returned to his position at the end of the line. His eyes, mirroring the emotions of fear he’d been talking about, met Paul's for a moment. Paul knew that he wasn’t afraid for himself but for all of them, those who were here and those at Hilltop. He also saw determination in them, and a self-assuredness that seemed to be enough to convince the rest to start walking again.

At this point, Paul only wished that Peter, in his strange honesty, had also been sincere when he’d said that they used to be discreet when they got into other camps and never attacked anyone unless they were threatened. They’d already shown that when they’d been able to sneak into the outpost and disable their cars without any of them having noticed a fucking thing—them being able to enter Hilltop without being seen was a different matter though.

"I can barely feel my feet," Marcus murmured after a while in front of him, and as if the comment had only been a thought spoken aloud.

Paul watched his boots dig into the snow erratically.

"Marcus, keep walking. We're close." He wasn’t even sure of that, but there was little else he could tell him.

"I can’t—"

"Think of the hot bath you'll get as soon as we get there," Tyler said. "And if it's not the hot bath and we have to go in punching everything and everyone, at least that’ll keep you warm."

It wasn’t clear if that had succeeded in encouraging Marcus, but at least the guy kept walking without saying anything else.

A few miles later, the group stopped abruptly. There was still no trace of Hilltop's walls, although it might as well be hiding behind the black curtain of darkness in front of their noses. That hadn’t been what had stopped them, though. No. Faint sounds could be heard in the distance, so soft that it was almost impossible to be certain they were real.

"Are those gunshots?" Carol asked, breaking the numbness to which they seemed to have succumbed to.

Mandy was the first to run while the others looked at her as if they were completely unaware of what was going on. Marcus followed her, then Tyler, and soon they all were running as if they hadn’t been walking under the icy night for at least three hours. It was like suddenly the fatigue had become fuel for their muscles.

They ran until the echo of the gunshots became unquestionable and the intermittent flashes illuminated the night sky, outlining the ghostly silhouette of Hilltop’s walls.

"Let's separate," Daryl urged.

"Okay. Tyler and Mandy come with me," Paul said. "We'll go in through the second trapdoor."

Daryl hesitated a second, but he nodded and instructed Carol and Marcus, then they disappeared, swallowed by the night.

Mandy and Tyler followed him in silence; none of them seemed to be able to take their eyes off the colony. The gunshots and also the screams became clearer with each step they took.

"Fuck…" Mandy murmured.

"Mandy." Paul turned to look at her.

"I'm fine, I'm fine. It's just… I don’t understand why."

Why? It was a good question and Paul could think of several answers for that, but none of them would be comforting. There was no time to question anything, however, because Hilltop’s big gates burst open with a crash and the lights of a car illuminated the road seconds later. It was one of their big SUVs, and it took the road at an impossible speed, not even the instability of the ground, which made it lose control several times, seemed to be enough to stop it.

"Watch out!" Paul shouted.

The three of them threw themselves out of the way shortly before the car passed by their side, about to run them over. If the occupants had seen them, there was no apparent evidence of it; the SUV drove past so fast that Paul had to cover his face with his arm to avoid the splattering snow and ice.

Cursing under his breath, Paul returned to the road again; Tyler and Mandy followed, and the three of them raised their weapons and opened fire, but the car didn’t stop, and soon was lost in the dark.

"Shit!" Tyler yelled.

Paul began to run as fast as he could toward the colony. The gates were disengaged and damaged, people were running from one place to another, screaming and crying—mass hysteria had impregnated the air that competed with the steady rhythm of the persistent snowfall.

Eduardo was the first person who really caught his eye when they got inside. He was amidst the madness, giving orders hastily.

"What’s the situation?" Paul demanded bluntly.

Eduardo turned around in surprise, "What—"

"How the hell did they come in?"

There was a clear moment of confusion, as if Eduardo was trying to collect himself, perplexed by the tumult around them, then he began walking towards Barrington House and Paul fell into step beside him.

"I have no idea, nobody saw anything, not even when they entered the house. They beat up Milton—he’s okay, nothing serious, but he was knocked out long enough for them to go down to loot the pantry. It was Crystal who found him and warned—"

The doors of the house burst open and a group of guards rushed out. Eduardo grabbed Paul and pulled him aside almost instinctively.

"Everyone is already in the library," Oscar said, one of the security guards of the colony.

"Where’s Ma—"

"I'm here," Maggie interrupted, emerging between two of the guards. "We haven’t seen anything during the evacuation, but we have to make sure."

"What's going on?" Paul asked, his tone urgent despite the obvious bewilderment.

"There were nine of them," Eduardo explained. "It's the first thing I did, making sure to find out how many they were. Nine. Six of them got in while the other three waited for them outside, watching. Those managed to escape when the turmoil began. Five took one of our SUVs and fled, tearing down everything and everyone in their fucking path."

Eduardo pointed with his finger and Paul watched the scene he had ignored when he’d entered. There were people running back and forth between those on the ground. Some seemed to have only suffered slight bruises, although the shock and fear was noticeable. Tara was lending them a hand, and so was Tammy. She had some scratches on her face, but that didn’t seem to stop the woman from helping those who hadn’t been as lucky, including Earl Sutton, who was lying in the damp mud while he was being taken care of by Harlan.

"One’s missing," Paul said distractedly, not taking his eyes off of all those people.

"Yes," Eduardo continued, growing more and more impatient. "Crystal said that when she heard the noises and went downstairs, she found three of them scanning the basement, looking through the cells; they finally saw her when the other three came out of the pantry. One of them tried to gag her and the rest took that moment to escape. We’ve tried to gather all the people in the mansion into the library because, although Crystal says she isn’t sure—they hit her leaving her disoriented—I’m convinced that the man missing didn’t manage to leave the house; he’s hiding here, somewhere."

When Paul turned back to Eduardo again, he was surprised to see that Daryl, Carol, and Marcus were there, listening intently to what he was saying.

"Okay, let's go in and check out the house, then."

Eduardo nodded and Paul turned to Maggie.

"Make sure someone closes the gates; no one can enter or leave this place."

Maggie walked away from them immediately.

"You’re really sure he hasn’t escaped with the rest?" Daryl asked suspiciously.

"Completely sure," Eduardo said.

"Well, we'll go in—Mandy and Marcus, you will watch the perimeter of the house," Paul ordered.

After blocking access to the basement, convinced there was no one down there, they split into three groups, each would inspect one of the floors. Paul, Carol, and Oscar would take care of the first floor; Daryl, Tyler, and Larry would go to the second, and Eduardo and the rest to the third.

They went through room-by-room and closet-by-closet, not letting a single corner uninspected, not even those places where it was impossible for a grown adult to fit.

They didn’t see anything.

While Oscar went to watch the entrance to the house, Carol and Paul headed into the kitchen, it was the farthest room on the first floor and the last place left to check.

"Maybe he's escaped and nobody's seen him—frankly, I don’t think he's here, and I don’t think he'd be stupid enough to hide on the upper floors," Carol said quietly.

She was right, it didn’t make sense, but you never knew how someone would react in such a situation and it was wise not to assume that they were looking for someone thinking straight. Still, Paul didn’t say anything, all his attention was on the room in front of him; he looked around with the same confusion of someone finding something familiar out of place. The kitchen was not in a mess, though that wasn’t the strange part, it was the smell coating the air. He approached the old stoneware sink and smelled the stinging aroma of alcohol; the floor was also wet and sticky. Then he went to the small pantry they had there and opened it carefully; he perceived the same smell, only more intense—there was liquid and glass all over the floor.

He almost bumped into Carol when he hurried out.

"What’s wrong?"

"He's been here."

"Fuck, you sure?"

"He went into the pantry—there’s some bottles missing," Paul said, walking out of the kitchen and back into the great hall, followed by Carol. "He emptied some of them in the sink."

Daryl and the others were coming down the stairs just then.

"There's nothin’ up there," Daryl said hastily.

"He's not in the house," Paul confirmed, passing by.

"Where’re you going?"

"To the basement, to check the petrol cans. All of you get out there, make sure everyone takes shelter in their trailers or houses right now, it's possible that—"

There was a shriek then, and after that, another. They all were running out of the house when the first of the two small explosions were heard.

They saw the glow of the flames even before they were able to go around the house. The growl of a bike’s engine burst into the air shortly after, and a few shots were heard immediately afterwards. Nothing seemed to be able to stop the bike, though, and it headed toward the still open gates, while all of them aimed their weapons to shoot. Nevertheless, it was Tammy, perhaps possessed by a surge of courage, or simply because she’d completely lost her mind, who ran to cut the fugitive's way.

It all happened quickly—Tammy's body hit the ground hard before any of them could warn her to get out of the way. The shouts of surprise and dismay didn’t wait, and Paul hurried there, although he didn’t do it as fast as Daryl who’d run ahead even before the bike had hit the woman. The man who drove it had also fallen in a bad way, moaning in pain while the bike still roared next to him. Daryl grabbed him by his clothes, making the hood covering him partially fall over his shoulders, and dragged him down the ground a few yards before letting him fall again, ripping off the bandana from his mouth before he punched him repeatedly.

The man screamed and begged. Paul grabbed Daryl, but he knew that it was practically impossible to stop him when he lost control in such a way.

"Daryl, stop! C’mon, stop!"

He needed the help of Eduardo and Tyler to be able to move him away. Meanwhile, the people around them screamed worriedly because of the spread of the flames in the shed where they kept the cars. The small bursts of the tires were constant and the intense heat could be felt even from there.

"C’mon! The hell y’all looking at! We have to extinguish the fire!" someone yelled.

"No!" Maggie warned. "It's too dangerous, stay a—!"

The explosion of the tank of one of the cars caused a curtain of fire, smoke, and chaos. The atmosphere stirred even more and the screams gave way to desperate cries.

Paul looked around to where Harlan, Alex, and Maggie were taking care of Tammy who barely seemed to respond to any stimulus. Harlan gave some quick orders and two people went running toward the hospital trailer. There was blood, so much blood—her hair was tinged in a redder color than usual. A few yards away, Lizzy and Tara were still taking care of Earl while others struggled to remain calm, ignoring the tension that filled the air and trying to help the rest of the wounded.

When he turned his gaze back to Tammy, he saw that Daryl was there, his face as pale as the falling snow, staring in disbelief, as if he’d been given the role of a spectator in a cruel film.

The minutes passed agonizingly as Harlan did his work as best as he could in the given circumstances, but just as the guys came back with a stretcher, the doctor stopped what he was doing and shook his head dejectedly. Alex broke away slightly, his expression blank, while Maggie ducked her head, unable to conceal her desolation. Daryl, however, stood there, stiff as a stone—this couldn’t be happening. It had to be a nightmare.

Daryl moved then, his eyes—empty of any emotion—settled on the man they’d been looking for moments earlier. He was still half-seated on the ground, motionless, not only because of the pain and the wounds, but also because of the gun Eduardo had aimed at his head. Daryl took a step forward as precise as a lion about to hunt its prey. But a new explosion froze the time once again.

Paul turned to look at the fire devouring their possessions as easily as the snow melted around it. The flames were growing more and more virulently; lighting small blazes in the grassy areas that dried up in the heat.

"The horses…" The words slipped through his lips softly, but then his heart started to race, as if he’d suddenly awakened after a long lethargy. "The horses," he repeated, this time more consciously, and started to walk at the same time. "We have to get the horses out of the stables!"

He ran so fast that his knees hurt. The black smoke was already snaking through the roof beams when he entered. The heat was intense and the smell of burned rubber was unbearable. He heard a few coughs behind him as those who’d accompanied him began to open the doors of the horse boxes and forced the horses out of there. Most of the animals were too scared and nervous to be controlled though. Paul managed to get two of them out, and when he entered again, he went directly to Sirius's box without taking his eyes off the far back where Dama was. He could see her, as nervous and frightened as the rest. Their eyes met for a moment, a second in which the mare seemed to stop her neighing and relentless knocking against the door to watch him in anticipation, for him to get her out of there.

In a rush, Paul opened the lock on Sirius's box-door and tried to guide the anxious horse out as fast as he could.

That was the last thing he’d been able to do before he felt his body being pushed by an invisible force even before the blast of the explosion bounced against his eardrums with the same violence of a fist. The intensity of the heat scorched his skin, the hard impact on the ground took his breath away—and it was over. Only the clamor of those present seemed to keep him in a strange state of lucidity, it was as if he didn’t understand what had happened, or maybe he did, but he didn’t want to believe it.

Someone yelled his name, but his eyes couldn’t see more than those flames, as large as the giants described in children's books, while they consumed everything in their way with fury.

Neither the tongues of fire nor the scattered pieces of splintered wood nor the floating straw, dancing in the air with the snowflakes, had paralyzed all his senses—it was the neighing of the horses still trapped in the midst of that hell.

_Dama_.

Paul began to crawl on the ground, in some sort of total disconnection from the world around him, but he’d barely managed to get up, ready to go inside the stables again, when arms surrounded him, holding him in place tightly.

"No! No, no, no!" were the only desperate words he was able to utter.

He fought with rage until they fell to the ground and he managed to get rid of whoever was retaining him. He tried to stand up and run, but he was grabbed by the ankle again and hit the ground once more. He sat up as fast as he could, ready to keep fighting, but the other man got a hold of him, preventing any act of useless defense—such an intense hug that, for a moment, he thought the air wouldn’t reach his lungs anymore.

"Don’t be stupid, Paul. Please, don’t be stupid. I can’t lose you too."

Daryl's voice sounded so anxious and broken that Paul could only close his eyes, hoping that the nightmare would be over by the time he opened them again—but the fire was still there when he did, as beautiful in its colors as wildly terrifying in its forms.

They sat on the ground for an indistinct time, watching that infernal scene until only the crackling sounds of the fire consuming the wood could be heard. Even the horses that had escaped that trap seemed to protest in silence as they tried to shun the humans who wanted to tie their reins.

Paul saw this when he turned, still sitting in the mud, even when his attention was on Daryl, the man who’d held him back until that moment, preventing him from being the one losing control for once. Daryl had gotten up and was walking toward Tammy's motionless body. Everyone got out of his way. He knelt beside her, for a moment doing nothing more than to look at her, as if he couldn’t comprehend if it was real or not. Then he laid a hand on her forehead and ducked his head. Paul saw his mouth move, though he was sure no sound was coming from his lips. Then he drew his knife and grabbed it tightly.

Paul didn’t look, he couldn’t—only the surprised gasps of those who weren’t yet accustomed to the reality of the new world told him that everything was over now for the woman with hair as red as the fire that had taken Dama.

His chest constricted, and when he opened his eyes again with tears soaking his cheeks, he saw that Daryl was already standing, his attention on the stranger amidst them all. Eduardo stepped away from him, as if he were convinced that the dispute was only between them now.

Paul watched the man for the first time since he’d fallen off the bike. There was something familiar about him—and as if he’d noticed, the man turned to look at him. In his eyes, Paul saw confusion and fear, but also recognition. The man's eyebrows rose and a glimmer of hope suddenly seemed to glow in his face as he overlooked the figure that was heading toward him with the very determination of death.

"Paul—"

That was all he could say before Daryl put a bullet in his head.

 


	17. 15

13 MONTHS AGO.

 

The smell of sawdust and fresh hay had never bothered Paul, and on that cold October afternoon, the smell was even less intense, or maybe it was that he’d gotten used to it. He was sitting in an uncomfortable wooden chair in front of the box Dama had been assigned to, grateful that it was in the far back of the stable where he could go almost unnoticed by people walking in and out, so immersed in their work that they didn’t notice him.

He smiled, watching the trail of saliva that Dama had left in his palm while the mare chewed enthusiastically on the third piece of carrot he had given her.

"The other horses are going to hate me because I'm not giving them anything."

She swallowed the food and leaned over the door until her snout almost touched Paul's face, sniffing at him with her hot breath brushing against his cheeks.

"Oh, I see, you want more, huh? Aren’t you ashamed to take advantage of a poor, injured person?" Paul bent slightly to take another vegetable, ignoring the slight pain in his stomach—Dama took that moment to lick his face.

Paul laughed, unable to hide the happiness that was welling up inside him—it was still hard to look back when everything had been uncertain and the sound of bullets and the smell of blood had impregnated everything. The bang of Vulture's gun still woke him up at night, causing a deep burn in his stomach, although he knew that the pain was only a part of his imagination.

Daryl was there when that happened. Always. Dozing in an armchair, refusing to share the bed with him. He was afraid of hurting him, he’d said. What kind of harm could he do to him that was even worse than what they’d already suffered? He wanted to have him by his side and touch him so much that sometimes that was the reason why he couldn’t sleep.

That longing, unfortunately, was always accompanied by other memories of an even more distant past, of a life that now felt like a faded memory, a utopian dream, as if, in the end, it had never existed, and had only been a part of a vivid fantasy. It was like there had never really been any other reality than the one they were living in now. _This_ was the real world, and he, strangely, was grateful to be able to live in it.

He was happy, because he’d found something that he’d thought he’d lost in a past that seemed as far-away as an illusion now, something he would never experience again. But he had, and he’d found it in the most unexpected way and in the least expected person. He’d been given a second chance, a new beginning, and he was fully determined to make the most of it.

Dama brushed her snout against his cheek, impatiently claiming his attention. Paul laughed as the mare began to lick him again. "You only like me because of the food," he said, handing her another piece of carrot, only this time, he didn’t release it and let Dama eat it directly from his hand while he caressed her white dotted nose with the other. "I'm sure you're anxious to go out, aren’t you? Yeah… me too, and I can’t wait because, between you and me, being injured is a pa—"

"So you're here."

He jumped on his seat when he heard Daryl's voice. He was standing by the entrance, and Paul was almost sure that he must’ve been there for a while, even if he wanted to make it look otherwise.

"Hey, you're back."

Daryl uncrossed his arms and walked over to him. "I've only been out for a couple of hours."

"Really? Well, it felt like an eternity—but I guess it has more to do with how bored I am than anything else."

Daryl chuckled, shaking his head, and leaned against the far wall by his side.

"You look tired," Paul said.

"I am. How do you feel?"

"I'm fine. You know? There’s no risks to take when you’ve got nothing to do."

"I see… anyway, shouldn’t you be resting in a place that, I don’t know, smells less of horse shit and without animals capable of breaking your ribs?"

"I'm sitting on a chair."

"You still have the stitches, you should—"

"They're going to remove them tomorrow."

"She's a very nervous mare."

"She's not a nervous mare, she's just selective with the people she likes—so you should be thinking about choosing another horse for yourself—well, actually, I know you already have."

"No need for me to choose any horse, and I haven’t."

"You’re not going to ride out with me when I’m recovered?"

"No fuckin’ way, I ain’t gonna ride any of these bastards," he protested.

Paul smiled. "You're still resentful, huh?"

Daryl pretended to be surprised. "The fuck you talkin’ about?"

"Your accident."

"I didn’t have— _who_ the hell told you?"

"First rule when you investigate something: never reveal your sources."

"It was Maggie, right?"

Paul shrugged and Dama hit the door, probably bored with their conversation and hungry for more food.

"There’s no more left," Paul said, offering her the last piece of carrot.

They watched the mare eat as if no one else was there with her. The light coming through one of the windows let her black eyes shine vividly and illuminated her clean fur after the brushing she liked so much—which Daryl didn’t need to know anything about.

"His name is Sirius," Paul said as he wiped his hands on a rag.

"What?"

"The black horse you can’t take your eyes off every time you come here."

Daryl opened his mouth to protest, but as if suddenly realizing that denying it was a waste of time, he pressed his lips together again.

"I can tell he likes you too," Paul continued. "He’s been here since the beginning; he's obedient, strong, and full of energy."

"Have you ever ridden him?"

Paul didn’t bother to hide the triumphant smile.

"No, but I've seen him run, he's got the same spirit as Dama. It'll be fun."

"Yeah, okay, sure," he said reluctantly, standing up. "C’mon, let’s go. Don’t know ‘bout you, but I’m fucking hungry."

Paul nodded, stretching out a hand that Daryl took without thinking twice, helping him get up from his chair. As soon as Paul was up on his feet, he realized what just had happened, Daryl stared at him, wrinkling his forehead.

"Thought you’re feeling good?"

"And I do, but since you refuse to touch me, I have to make up excuses."

He cupped Daryl's dirty, sweaty face in his hands and planted a quick kiss on his lips. Then he stroked Dama one last time and walked with determined steps toward the entrance, until he noticed that Daryl wasn’t following.

"What?" Paul asked innocently.

"The day you’re fully recovered, I swear—"

"Yeah, yeah… c’mon, archer, we don’t have all day."

 

* * *

 

 

TODAY.

 

The air in the office of Barrington House was so thick that it could almost be touched. A lot of people had gathered in the room, and from what Paul could see, they were mainly the ones responsible for Hilltop’s safety who—as painful as that thought might be—had obviously failed to do their job.

Crystal was seated in the middle of the room, visibly nervous like a person thinking that they might be lynched in a public trial soon. Paul’s attention was elsewhere though, he could barely take his eyes off the paper in his hands—he’d lost count of the times he’d read it to make sure it was as real as it felt.

Hilltop’s census listing was now disturbed by red marks indicating the most recent deaths: Arnold, Gregory… He’d read the name several times despite having seen it with his own eyes when the fire still had crackled behind them and they’d tried to bring order into the chaos that was dominating the scene. The wailing because of the fallen citizens had risen in the already strained air, and then, one of those unwanted beings had appeared around Barrington House. Their hearts had curled into a fist as they’d watched it advance toward them until the vivid color of the flames, which had done so much damage to them, had finally illuminated his face, and then the two bullet wounds on his chest. Maggie had silenced his moans forever, without even blinking. Marcus had later speculated that Gregory probably had tried to flee using one of the trapdoors, but instead had found himself in the middle of the fire they had opened on the man on the bike. They didn’t know for sure, but it was possible and wouldn’t surprise anyone—a stupid death for a man who’d acted stupidly.

Yet it still felt strange to Paul to see his name marked. Gregory was on that list next to Arnold and the others, Nicholas, Rose… Tammy. Paul put the paper back on the table, next to the other list, the one they had made provisionally, listing everything else they had lost.

There, as if they were one of the replaceable objects, were also the horses that had perished in the fire. Not with their names, though, only the numbers that corresponded to the boxes that each of them had occupied were written down. Paul was not sure if, somehow, he was relieved not to see Dama’s name there or if his frustration was even bigger.

He took a deep breath and looked at the window, the snow had stopped falling just as the sun had risen, offering them a little rest for most of the day while they’d bidden farewell to their people. Now, in the early afternoon, the black clouds began to cover the sky again, as if in harmony with the current mood in the colony.

When Paul returned his attention to the office, his eyes fell on Daryl. He was at the far end of the room, next to the bookshelf and the window, in the same place he’d occupied when Maggie had informed them about Peter's intentions to leave. His gaze rested on the carpet, although his mind was clearly elsewhere. They hadn’t spoken during the whole day, but Paul guessed neither of them had had the time nor the courage to do so.

The office door opened and Maggie entered the room, accompanied by Eduardo who joined the others who were standing around a very anxious Crystal. Maggie left a pair of papers on the table and then turned around to address Crystal.

"Okay," she said, her composed tone not reflecting the clear pain that could be perceived in her eyes. "I know you're nervous and still a bit dazed, Crystal. If you think you can’t do this we can leave it for another time, but I'd like you to understand that it's much wiser to do it now when the memory is still fresh."

Crystal nodded, though it was obvious that the woman would have fled if she could. Her eyes were red and her cheeks soaked with the tears she’d shed throughout the day.

"Tell us everything you remember from the moment you left your room."

She moved her lips a couple of times, but she was only able to babble some incoherent sentences, then she looked at everyone watching her, waiting to hear her testimony to form an opinion and draw a conclusion about what had happened the previous night.

"I—" She took a deep breath. "I don’t know… I can’t tell what exactly led me to the first floor. I thought I heard something, which is absurd because many people live in the house, it could’ve been anyone, but I wasn’t asleep—I’ve been suffering from insomnia for some time—I know that’s not important, but I heard… I don’t really know what I heard, but I went down, thinking that I could go to the kitchen to make myself a glass of hot milk—I would’ve noted it down in the inventory, I swear—anyway, I left the room and I saw Milton at the bottom of the stairs, sitting on the floor with his head resting on the railing. I ran down, I thought he fell down the stairs, didn’t even think of any other possibility when I saw the blood on his forehead—so I asked for help but then I heard something else, and I saw that the basement door was ajar."

Crystal closed her eyes and paused, only for a few short seconds, but it still made everyone else in the room impatient.

"I don’t know why I went there—the first thing I saw was three men. I think they were men because they were quite big, but I'm not sure, they had their hair and faces covered—It looked like—I don’t know, like they were knocking on the doors, checking out the cells, as if—as if they were looking for someone." Crystal looked up for the first time. "That doesn’t make sense, does it? Peter’s not here anymore…"

Paul noticed Daryl staring at him and could see  his breathing quickening.

Maggie cleared her throat. "What else did you see, Crystal?"

"Not much. The other three came out of the pantry and they were carrying stuff—that’s all I remember before they caught me. I couldn’t scream for help…" All of a sudden her cheeks were wet with tears. "Oh God, are the wounded okay? I heard Earl was hit badly by the car. He's a good man, he doesn’t deserve this, nobody did."

"They’re all alright, they will recover." Maggie managed to draw a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. "We're done here, Crystal, you can go and rest."

As if someone had unleashed some kind of invisible chain, Crystal got up and hurried out of the office.

"Are we sure Peter arrived to his camp?" Oscar asked once the door was closed. "Maybe something happened to him on the way and now they—"

"They weren’t looking for him. Peter arrived safely to his camp," Paul interrupted.

"Besides, that wouldn’t make any sense," Tyler added. "How would they know that Peter was _here_? Even if he wasn’t among them, he obviously told them where to come."

"And yet, according to Crystal and the first report made, they barely took anything," Oscar protested. "Why come, then?"

Daryl shifted uncomfortably, sighing deeply at the same time as Maggie did—Paul even imagined her speaking to redirect the conversation, but he did it first.

"I followed Peter to his camp," he said firmly, almost impartially, as if the information was futile. "After checking out the surroundings, I realized I was being followed. It was a boy, he and his sister crossed my path. They died by accident."

Maggie turned to watch him closely. She knew they had met Peter's people, but Paul had tried not to be too specific about it when he’d told her.

Oscar laughed sarcastically. "How the hell do two people just _die_ by accident?"

"In many ways," Paul said, without changing the stoicism of his tone. "Nervousness, recklessness… making bad decisions. The girl shot herself by accident and then the boy tried to kill me—I'm convinced Peter knew some of us would follow him, and they may have associated the absence of the siblings with our presence there."

"Great. Is there anything else you're keeping from us? I don’t know, like, why did the guy from yesterday say your name before Dixon blew his brains out?" Tyler asked then.

"His name was Logan Bennett—Peter's little brother."

The general bewilderment overwhelmed the already gritty atmosphere in the office. Murmurs that still couldn’t divert his attention from Daryl's questioning eyes.

"Okay, shut up everyone," Maggie demanded, raising her voice. "Unless Peter has an important position in his group, and as far as we know he doesn’t, the identity of the man is irrelevant to us," she said as she unfolded a map of the colony on the table. "We must focus on trying to figure out how they were able to get in and reach this place without being seen." She laid a finger on the spot where Barrington House was located.

"Walking through the colony at night without being seen is quite easy, actually," Eduardo said after clearing his throat. "There are a lot of blind spots, and as far as we know, this isn’t the first time they do something like this; they know what they are doing—I think they entered using the second trapdoor, that area isn’t finished, and the watch points’ posts aren’t built yet. The trapdoors aren’t easy to spot from outside, though. You would have to know where to look for them. But—" He paused and Paul knew that Eduardo was making a great effort not to look at him. "Peter was here, inside, and he knew where each of them was located."

For a moment, no one said anything, so Maggie looked at Tyler. "What about the outpost? They got in there too."

Before he spoke, Tyler glanced at Daryl. "There’s still a lot of work to be done there. The perimeter is surrounded by a simple wire netting that is easily penetrable. The watch points are assigned, but only one of them is actually operational at the moment. I’m not trying to justify my group with this, but right now, we still don’t have all we need to make the outpost a completely safe and inaccessible place—we are working on it."

Maggie chewed on that information without taking her eyes off the plan in front of her. "What’s the solution? Eduardo?"

"Eh… well, for now, I'd say double the surveillance in all the weak spots until we can finish the construction works. We should also organize patrols to check the surroundings. Right now, there's a fifty percent chance they'll think the man they've left behind is still alive."

Maggie nodded. "Tyler?"

"Our intention is to build a concrete wall, but we won’t be able to do it until winter is over. Increasing surveillance is our only solution for the moment."

"Paul? Daryl?" she asked then, as if waiting for their verdict on the guys’ analysis.

Paul opened his mouth to say something, but his throat was as dry as a rag, so he just nodded. Daryl didn’t even bother to answer. Maggie waited for a few seconds, even though it didn’t look like anyone had anything else to add.

"Eduardo, I want you to organize a team here, in the colony, and Tyler, you’ll do the same at the outpost; also, someone has to go take Dante. Tomorrow I want two patrols tracking these woods. You can go now. Paul and Daryl, stay a second."

As soon as they were alone, Maggie's composure vanished and she dropped herself into the chair just behind her, with her elbows on the table and her hands covering her face, barely hiding a demoralized sob.

Paul would have liked to approach and hug her, convince her that everything would be back to normal soon, but the guilt that weighed on him was as strong as if his legs had been sunken into a pool of concrete.

For his part, Daryl remained silent; he only shifted to cross his arms and look out the window. His expression could have competed in coldness with the snow that had melted during the day.

Maggie sighed heavily, rubbed her face, erasing any trace of the tears that might have been there, and leaned back in the seat. The three of them looked at each other then, and although there were a lot of things that could have been said, they remained still for a long time.

"We haven’t suffered an attack like this since the saviors," Maggie said, her tone was low and her voice, despite her attempt to hide it, sounded broken. "After that, these people put their trust in me… but look at this, I haven’t been able to do a better job than Gregory. I've failed them—no, Paul, no," she warned when she realized that he was about to refute that argument. "It doesn’t matter anymore, it's not the time to look for guilty parties, it's time to find solutions, because I'm afraid that increasing surveillance is not going to be enough, and I need you, I _need_ you both."

There was nothing more to say after that and the three left the office. Maggie headed for the stairs while the two of them left the mansion. Daryl walked in front of him, stiff shoulders and steady steps, ignoring everything around him—ignoring _him_. Paul stopped halfway and watched Daryl walk away and get into the trailer, closing the door behind him without even looking back once. Paul couldn’t help wondering if this was only a consequence of what had happened, if this was just the way Daryl had to deal with Tammy's death, or whether it was a manifestation of the state of their relationship, headed to a future that had already begun to fade weeks ago.

He looked around, unable to oversee the evasive glances of those who worked hard to make Hilltop look like the quiet, peaceful community it had always tried to be again. To pretend that nothing had happened, and that the world was merely a fable that had nothing to do with them outside those walls.

Then, the hospital trailer door opened and Brianna came out with her son. The boy had his hand and arm bandaged. Brianna greeted him affectionately, nodding in silence while she led her son to their trailer.

Paul wasn’t sure why, but he entered the hospital trailer after that. The office door was open and he saw Lizzy and Tara inside.

"Hey," Tara said, approaching him. Her pale face barely concealed her visible exhaustion.

"Hi, are you helping out?" he asked as if that wasn’t obvious enough.

Tara nodded anyway. "It's not that I can do much, but I thought they could use a hand."

"C’mon, Tara, you saved my life, don’t say you can’t do much."

Tara shook her head, as if trying to keep those images from her mind. "Harlan and Alex are touring around, visiting all the wounded," she said absently.

"Is anyone staying in here?"

"Only Earl, although he threatened to stop working for us if we don’t let him leave soon."

That made him smile. "Can I see him?"

Tara looked at Lizzy.

"I'll check if he's awake."

Lizzy disappeared into the adjoining room and came out only seconds later, indicating that he could come in.

Paul was surprised by how much it affected him to see Earl like this. His built was rather bulky with a small belly and a stout but good-natured appearance that explained why he was one of the most beloved members of the community. His cheeks, always pink, now looked pale, merging with his thick, gray beard. His bushy eyebrows, usually gently arched and relaxed, were pulled together, frowning in such a way that Paul was sure those lines would be imprinted on his skin forever. Still, the man smiled sadly when he saw him.

"Hi, son, let's see if you can persuade them to let me leave this place."

"I don’t think I'm in a position to contradict Harlan's orders. They'll let you go as soon as you're feeling better, though," Paul said, sitting down in a chair next to the bed.

"I’m fine, just a little sore, but I guess that's to be expected after being hit by a car, right?"

Paul knew the man wasn’t trying to be malicious, but he still felt a sudden pang of guilt in his chest.

"Earl, I’m—"

"Don’t say it, son. Don’t say it, it's not fair…"

Earl turned to look at the window and Paul realized now how tired he really sounded. His chest moved with effort, his hands, resting on his belly, had cuts and scrapes, like the ones that could be seen on his face. The worst, however, as Harlan had informed him, were the bruises that marked the rest of his body, now covered in some pajamas and layers of sheets and blankets.

"It's not fair," he repeated, this time speaking in a whisper. "People judge from the comfort of their positions on this side of the walls, while others give their lives for them outside." His green eyes met his again. "You shouldn’t regret being a good man, Paul Monroe. You did something good, something not many would’ve done. It's not your fault that there are bad people out there, willing to hurt others no matter what."

"It’s difficult to tell who’s good or bad these days, Earl."

"I'll tell you what's bad: to enter into others’ property and destroy everything. _Those_ people—" He paused to catch his breath, his voice shaking. "I know I should feel lucky to be alive, but it's so hard right now—God, look at me, whining, ignoring my own advice." Earl tried to laugh, but his eyes were full of tears.

Paul took one of the man's hands and squeezed it carefully. "You'll be working again soon, Earl."

"Have you seen the state of my stand?"

"We'll fix it, and we'll make it bigger."

Earl gave him a smile, but the curve drawn by his lips didn’t drive his sadness away.

 

***

 

He felt dazed when he left the hospital trailer. Perhaps it was because of the aseptic smell that was now stuck in his brain, or maybe it was because he was unable to shake off the image of Earl lying there while the distorted cries of the rest drowned the air and Hilltop was consumed by the fire, without any of them being able to do anything about it. Of course this was only an arbitrary and unreal image that his mind had created on its own, but the dizziness and nausea forced him to cling to the doorframe before he could keep on walking.

He looked around; the activity in the colony went on with all the tranquility it could handle after a night like the previous one. His neighbors worked to remove the remains of the pyre and the destruction caused by the car and the fire.

His eyes scanned the area until they stopped on the pile of debris that had been the stables—he wanted to cry just right there, and yet he had no choice but to swallow down the tears no one would understand, piercing his throat like pins.

Trying not to pay attention to the pretended indifference of those he passed by, Paul approached the former stables. The little that remained was nothing more than a bunch of blackened pieces of wood that still smoked, giving off a smell that he was sure he would never forget. His knees touched the ground even before he could stop himself, and his fingers traced a line over the ash-covered ground. He closed his eyes; the first image he saw was hers—his mare, watching him, waiting for him to take her out of that hell.

He drew in a breath and his chest fluttered with effort, then he rubbed the back of a hand over his face before those damn tears showed up. He leaned back, sitting on his heels; the clouds had covered the sky again with a dense, dark blanket.

Paul relaxed the tension in his face’s muscles into one of those impenetrable masks, when he noticed that someone was watching him. He could hardly hide his surprise when he saw that it was Eugene, dressed in a black coat that was too large for him, and accompanied by an expression as collected as his own.

Neither of them spoke for a while, and although it was evident that Eugene wasn’t there by chance, Paul was not in the mood to ask him why.

"I know this is probably the last thing you'd like to hear right now," he said then, in that bored tone that had never bothered him as much as it did now, "but the radio at the library is working." He paused, maybe for effect or maybe because he was expecting some kind of reaction from him. When he didn’t get one, he continued, "I made it work yesterday—no, actually, I made it work the night before yesterday, after you brought me the last pieces."

Eugene must have sensed the reluctance in his eyes, because he shifted nervously, then he said, “There’s an irrefutable fact that the radio works and it’s the reason I came looking for you—if we could have had this before the events from last night, we could have done something to prevent them. I know you had problems communicating with the colony on your way back, but the truth is that if you’d had another device like this at the outpost, you could’ve been able to warn us in time and, consequently, avoided the sabotage. In fact, I am a ninety-nine percent certain that our guards could’ve been able to intercept the group of assailants before they had been able to approach the walls."

Eugene moved his hands, unsure of what to do with them, until he gathered them in front of him, waiting. Paul looked up at him, his brain processing his words carefully.

He wasn’t sure how much time passed while none of them moved, but he figured it had been long enough when Eugene started to scratch his neck awkwardly. Paul got up, then, which made Eugene to step back instinctively.

"What do you need?" he asked with detachment, approaching him, while Eugene struggled to maintain his composure.

"We've already talked about this—high-performance solar panels." He hesitated a moment as if he were pondering the best way explaining what he had to say, sticking only to the essential information. "Having the radio is not enough, it's like having a baseball bat and not—" he pursed his lips quickly, aware of the unfortunate analogy he had used. "I'm sorry, right now, I'm going through a strange state of excitement and grief—anyway, as I said, to establish the communications we need the relay stations working. We could think of the possibility of using domestic solar panels, such as the ones we have here, but finding them is still a problem and we would need a significant amount of them to keep the electricity constant, otherwise, during nights or in adverse conditions, they would discharge, leaving us blind."

"So?"

" _So_ , the most recommendable option is the high-performance solar panels."

"And where are we going to find those panels, Eugene?" Paul didn’t disregard the lack of emotion in his voice.

Eugene thought for a moment. "Obviously, the simplest option would be to find a factory, but we don’t know in which state we will find the material or if we will even find anything at all—it’s possible they manufactured on demand. The other option is to look for a photovoltaic power station. Solar energy was beginning to have some relevance a few years back, and I know that there were some big power stations in California at the time, and—"

"California?" he interrupted, dumbfounded.

"Yes. Look, I know, I'm not stupid even though many people think—"

"I don’t think you are stupid."

"Well… I appreciate that—the situation is, I know it's a long and dangerous journey, but I'm aware of the construction of a power station of the same characteristics in Colorado."

"Colorado… okay… well, at least it's closer," he said, not bothering to hide the sarcasm.

Eugene shrugged. "I thought it was important give you these details. At least I hope you'll think about it."

The man turned and walked away.

 

***

 

Entering the trailer after his visit to Earl Sutton, the stables, and his conversation with Eugene only made him feel even sicker than he already had been. A sense of inner emptiness that increased as he saw Daryl standing in the kitchen with his head down, and his hands gripping the back of one of the chairs.

Carol was sitting on the couch and got up as soon as she saw him. The woman said nothing when she approached him, only touched his shoulder affectionately and left the trailer.

Paul took a few steps but stopped by the couch, and the memory from a few nights back struck him as hard as the recent events, and it didn’t get better during the long minutes that the two remained silent.

His heart told him to go and hug him, tell him all those encouraging words he knew wouldn’t change anything, but at least would make it clear that he was not alone. However, his common sense told him that it was wiser to stay where he was, because the rigid tension that kept Daryl's body in that position made him look like a Doberman about to attack.

"I'm gonna kill him," he said gravely. "I'm gonna kill them all."

Paul closed his eyes and sighed. He had known that they would reach this point sooner or later; it was inevitable even if he wished it hadn’t been now, when he didn’t have the emotional strength to fight with him.

"Would you mind explaining me how you plan on doing that?" he asked impassively.

Daryl didn’t answer, he kept his head down, but his fists clenched even more on the wood of the chair until his knuckles turned a painful white.

"I thought so," Paul continued. "I hope you at least think about it long enough so you can realize how stupid of an idea it is."

“Is it!?" Daryl snapped suddenly, straightening up as if rage had awakened his body. "You gonna tell me it’s better to do nothing—to cross our arms and wait? Yeah, let’s do that, what a great fuckin’ idea! Let’s wait so they can fuck us up again. Because that worked _so well_ before!”

He pushed the chair against the table angrily, then stepped forward, but before he moved further, he stopped again. "No, even better—let’s open the gates for them, roll out a damn red carpet, and let them sleep in our beds and eat our food while we work like fuckin’ slaves so they can take everything—our things, our _people_!"

Paul was silent, the pain of seeing Daryl in such a state was too much to bear, and nevertheless, he knew Daryl wouldn’t listen to anything he could say. So he allowed him to relieve himself, to let it all out, the rage that was eating him up, even though the words felt like physical blows, able to leave marks on his skin.

"I know you're a good man, Paul, I share a bed with you every day for fuck’s sake—even if we act like we don’t know each other no more. But this ain’t a world for good people!" he said, shaking his head and speaking more to himself than to him. "You know who was just like you? Who thought we had to give everyone a chance? Rick. _Rick_! But after getting fucked over too many times, he ended up learning—hell we all did! You’re always asking me to think before I act, right? I’m fucking sure _you_ knew what you were doing, and the consequences it could have, and you did it anyway! And _now_ fuckin’ what!?"

Nothing. There was absolutely nothing he could do about it more than what he was doing now, letting himself be accused of being the stupid fool he was. Maybe Earl had been right when he'd said he shouldn’t apologize for doing what he’d done, but the temptation was too strong. Still, he kept quiet while Daryl paced back and forth around that ridiculous kitchen.

"You _knew_ he wasn’t trustworthy," he continued. "You knew, because you experienced it firsthand—fuck, Paul, he _hurt_ you!" He rubbed his face in exasperation, his voice losing strength with every word that came out of his mouth. "And yet, you brought him here, against what you probably wanted, and against what Hilltop needed. You put him above us all—above yourself! And what for? Nothing! And you know it too, I can see it in your eyes. I saw it yesterday, when you wanted to go back to the stables blindly—tell me, _who’s_ feelin’ miserable _now_ , huh?"

Paul hadn’t realized he'd barely blinked until he felt the sting in his eyes. He was not even able to send the gall that was causing that bitter taste in his mouth back to his stomach. The only thing he could do was to watch the man in front of him slap him with the same words with which he had punished him days ago, and just as Daryl had done that night, Paul endured the blows with all the strength he could gather.

"Are you done?" he asked after a moment of silence, trying hard to stand firm.

Daryl stared at him, his chest moving violently, and his blue eyes dark, filled with rage. "Yes," he spat.

Paul turned and headed for the door, not looking back despite hearing Daryl’s heavy steps behind him.

"Yeah, right, fuck off! It’s all you ever do!"

Paul closed the door with surprising calmness and walked restlessly, clueless of where he was going until he stopped in front of the second trapdoor. He opened the small door and climbed down, then he crossed the short tunnel and climbed back up on the other side.

The angry wind, moving the clouds quickly, struck him as soon as he set foot in the forest while Daryl's words still bounced in his head. Fuck—he couldn’t breathe. He heard himself struggle, gulping and swallowing air, mouthful by mouthful, at the same time as the static grove came to life, moving in circles around him. He desperately searched for one of the trunks before he sank to his knees and rested there, sitting on the damp litter, until he was able to calm down and everything stopped moving in that crazy and nauseating dance.

"Fuck…"

He moved carefully, frightened that this horrible vertigo would affect him again. It was still hard to breathe, but at least the small part of his body that he’d managed to gain control over allowed him to notice the tracks on the ground that were obviously not his own.

He got up with effort and his body reacted, shivering as the first snowflake flew past his nose; suddenly aware that he was only wearing a shirt, and he hadn’t his knives with him either. None of that was enough to stop him, though, so he followed the tracks even though the faint light of the evening was barely able to pierce the web of branches entangled over his head.

The footprints led him into the forest until they veered to the left and began to circle the colony from a prudent distance. From there, he still wondered how the hell they had managed to cross the area in the middle of the night.

After a few minutes of walking, he stopped, suddenly distracted by the disturbingly familiar sound of their time. He deviated from the route in an attempt to avoid crossing paths with the walkers because, even from there, he could tell they were more than one. But only a few yards later, he came across two.

He cursed to himself as new moans emerged to his right—three more, and behind them were at least four others. He cursed again. Going away and avoiding a fight would be easy, but it was too late now because they’d seen him already—they would follow him and that would only attract more towards the colony.

He only had to keep calm, but his muscles didn’t respond with the ease of other occasions, they felt stiff and heavy, making the blows slow and kind of clumsy. Yet he killed the first two walkers with ease, but not with the readiness he would have needed and wanted, and the other group was already very close and too crowded to be able to kill them one by one effortlessly.

He managed to finish two others, but there were still five left, and the physical and mental fatigue was already taking its toll.

He chose to try to disperse them, moving away from them enough until their heartbreaking wailing became desperate. This allowed him to observe them carefully, even through the late afternoon and overcast sky. They were three men and one woman, Paul knew that he would have no problems with three of them if he could attack them individually, but one of the men was tall, and despite his advancing state of decomposition, also stout.

The woman was the first to break apart from the group, advancing faster than the rest. Paul waited patiently until she was far enough from them, then he kicked her on the chest, sending her to the ground, and sank the heel of his boot into her rotten skull. The next was a lanky man, whose skin looked like it was melting, blurring his features, but his teeth looked as threatening as any other predator’s. Paul ended up hitting his head against one of the trunks.

There were only two left, but Paul was fucking exhausted already, his chest heaving and sweat fighting against the icy night that was beginning to hover over him.

Fleeing didn’t look like a bad idea anymore. Still, he took a deep breath and stared at the weaker target of the two. The blow was blunt and the walker fell to the ground, motionless, but before he could walk away from him, the other, the one that seemed as big as a mountain, lunged at him and both fell to the ground. Paul crawled through the underbrush as fast as he could, but the walker grabbed him, pulling with unbelievable strength. Paul managed to dodge his teeth by mere inches, kicking his face, which gave him enough time to get away a few feet, but not fast enough to get up. The walker grabbed him again, his anguished bellows rising.

Paul had the urge to shout at him to shut up, but the walker clung to his left leg tightly, his teeth nipping at the hard fabric of his pants, brushing his skin dangerously. Paul kicked him once more in his head, this time dislocating his jaw. The walker fell to the side, leaving enough space for Paul to get up now, then he picked up the first heavy stone he found and slammed it into the walker’s skull repeatedly until he had no strength left in him.

Time passed by as Paul caught his breath, lying on the cold, wet ground. The falling flakes were weak and melted when they came in contact with his cheeks, blushing with exertion and adrenaline.

Finally, after a few diffused minutes, he rose and returned to the colony. He walked awkwardly, feeling a throbbing pain in his right thigh; he touched it and felt the dampness of blood in the palm of his hand. He went directly to the hospital trailer, ignoring everyone who was still outside their homes, and it wasn’t until he stepped into the waiting room that he realized the messy state of his clothes, stained with mud, dry leaves, and blood.

The office door was open but no one was there. Paul waited an impatient few minutes until he decided to go inside and find what he needed to treat the wound on his own—it didn’t look like a big cut, but it certainly hurt as if it were.

He was rummaging in one of the bags when the door from the rooms opened. Alex stopped short when he saw him, and Paul immediately paused what he was doing. The two stared at each other for a while, one with embarrassment, the other with confusion—in fact, Alex seemed uncertain about what to ask first, what the hell he was doing or what the hell had happened to him.

"How's Earl?" Paul asked before he could decide.

"He’s better; asleep right now," he replied, speaking in a low voice and without hiding his puzzlement. "What are you doing?"

Paul simply pointed at his thigh. Alex set the tray he was carrying on one of the desks and walked over to him.

"Shit, what happened?" He crouched down in front of him, trying to pull the torn cloth aside to take a look.

"It was just a stupid accident, it's a small wound, give me what you think I’ll need and I'll take care of it myself, I don’t want to waste your time with this."

"Oh, come on, Paul, shut up, take—"

At that moment, the outer door opened and Lizzy came in, too distracted to see them until she stopped in the middle of the office.

"Uh, oh, sorry, I thought—."

"Shouldn’t you be in the mansion already?" Alex asked.

"Yes, but Harlan asked me to change the night shift today, he said you needed some rest and I agree." Lizzy's eyes fell on Paul then. "Oh, shit, you're hurt? Do you need help or something?"

"Seriously, it's nothing," Paul protested, exhausted.

Perhaps Alex sensed the desperation in his voice—one he didn’t actually understand—because he got up, straightening his back, and went to his desk.

"Okay, I'll pick up my things and I'll take a look at that cut in your trailer, so we won’t bother Earl—I’ll see you tomorrow, Lizzy."

The girl hardly had time to wish them good night before they had left the trailer. Paul walked in front of Alex, failing to hide his little limp, and avoided looking at him when he passed the trailer he shared with Daryl. Alex didn't hide his confusion when they stood in front of his trailer, and suddenly Paul thought about Wes.

"Alex, I’m serious, I don’t want to bother you, I can do this alone, it's not important."

"You make it look like it is, every time you say it."

Alex opened the door and they both went inside. As Alex lit the stove, he waited in the kitchen, where they’d shared so many dinners and good times, but now this place felt unrecognizable to him.

"I'm going to stain everything with mud and—"

"Paul, please, shut up and take off your pants."

"Wow, there are things that never change. You’re still as bossy as ever."

"I don’t remember it bothering you in the past."

Alex spoke abstractedly while he rummaged in his briefcase, after all, what they had shared was only anecdotal now, but still Paul felt a pang in his stomach.

He unlaced his boots and took off his dirty pants—of course he wore his underwear, but that didn’t stop him from feeling exposed, even though they’d both seen each other naked before. The atmosphere quickly charged with a discomfort that was difficult to ignore while Alex placed a towel on the kitchen table.

"What the hell happened to you?" he asked, forcing a professional tone that didn’t work at all. He glanced at him and looked away almost instantly.

"Walkers. You should’ve seen them, one of them was as big as a bear."

"I see… sit on the table."

Paul obeyed and, for a moment, tried to think of something else while Alex did his work. But the touch of his fingers on his bare skin reminded him of their time together; the first time they had met, and their first encounters, flirting and teasing each other unashamedly. They had gotten close fast, and everything had been so easy, even the sex—without complications. All these memories, however, did nothing else than make him miss Daryl even more.

He sighed loudly and Alex looked at him, the concern and confusion visible in his eyes. "What's wrong?"

"It's nothing—well, it's everything really, but… it's nothing, it's… it doesn’t matter."

Surprisingly, Alex nodded, accepting that ambiguous answer in silence. What could he say, anyway?

"Listen, I'm sorry I forced you to come here," Paul said. "I know I sometimes abuse your trust and—"

"I'm sure Lizzy wouldn’t have minded seeing you in your underwear, but I wasn’t lying when I said that Earl needs to rest, and the wound, as you pointed out, is not that bad."

"What if Wes—"

"Paul, I'm just doing my job, okay? I don’t give a damn what that man thinks, and he's not going to come."

"Okay…"

His tone had been sharp enough, so Paul decided to remain quiet while Alex placed a bandage on his thigh. When he was finished, Paul didn’t wait for his consent to start dressing again.

"Thanks."

"You’re always welcome."

Paul drew a modest smile and went to the door.

"Paul." Alex stopped him before he could leave, then he approached him and gently put a hand on his cheek, removing some of the filthy tufts of hair from his face. "Don’t be too hard on yourself, okay? You did what anyone with a heart hidden somewhere would’ve done."

He accepted his sincere words and said goodbye without delaying the moment. Outside, the first thing he saw was Daryl sitting on the front steps of their trailer, smoking a cigarette—it didn’t take him long to notice that someone was watching him. Daryl pushed the smoke away from his lips as soon as their eyes locked, then tossed it to the ground, got up, and entered the trailer.

When Paul came in just a minute later, he found him sitting on the floor of the short hallway, with his arms resting on his knees. Paul dodged him and went into the kitchen. He took out one of the wine bottles from the cupboards, opened it, and then sat down in front of Daryl, leaning his back against the opposite wall. None of them said anything, though it was obvious that Daryl hadn’t overlooked his scruffy appearance.

"Don’t ask," Paul said, taking a long sip, then he offered the bottle to Daryl, who took it after a moment.

"M’tired," he said in a hoarse but muffled voice after taking a big gulp and reading the label as if it were something fascinating. "I’m tired of doing and saying things that I know I'm gonna regret later. Tired of saying I’m sorry to then keep making the same fucking mistakes." He drank some more. "I’m so fucking tired of losing people… I'm—" He took a deep breath. "I’m tired of seeing you walk away, not being able to do anything about it, but making things even worse—I'm fucking scared that one day, you’ll think you've had enough and I ain’t sure of what to do then, I don’t know what the hell to do, Paul. You are the only reason I'm still here and not out there, following those motherfuckers, I—" He moved his lips a few times, but then gave up and drank more wine.

Paul reached out for the bottle, Daryl handed it to him. "I'm tired too, Daryl," he said in an exhausted tone. "But above anything else, I'm tired of being tired." He looked at the bottle and sighed. "You know what I've learned today? That it doesn’t matter what we do—good or bad—there will always be blood. On our clothes, our hands, our conscience. And in the end, it's our own choice how to deal with it. I know how much it hurts, Daryl, I fucking know, and I know what your instinct is telling you to do right now, but don’t think that just because I try to be reasonable about what happened, mine isn’t demanding the exactly the same thing of me. But you know what? Regardless of what we think or feel, this isn’t about you or me, it's about Earl, Brianna, Tara, Maggie, Hershel… it's not revenge what Hilltop needs right now, what Hilltop needs is to feel safe again."

He paused, staring at the bottle in his hands, because suddenly, for some reason, he felt unable to look Daryl in the eye. Perhaps fearing how he would take what he was going to say next, perhaps fearing that, eventually, their paths would separate definitively and inevitably. Still, gathering his courage, he placed the bottle on the floor and looked up.

"Tomorrow I will talk to Maggie, and then I'll go to Alexandria and also to The Kingdom. I've talked to Eugene, he told me that the radio at the library is working." He surprised himself when he laughed. "It's unbelievable to think that if we’d had another radio at the outpost, we could have avoided this fucking disaster in just a second. We _need_ to establish the communications between the communities, Daryl, and I’ll make sure everyone understands this, even if everyone is going to think that this is a damn suicide mission."

He could have continued talking, explaining all the pros this idea offered, and that had captivated Eugene so much. There were so many things he could tell and yet he felt there was nothing left to be said.

He rose from the floor. "I'd like you to come with me, but I'd understand if you didn’t want to."

He turned and stopped in front of the bathroom door, he needed a fucking shower, but he was too exhausted to even think about it. So instead, he went into the bedroom, stripped off his clothes, and slipped under the sheets. He didn’t have time to complain to himself about the chill that ran through his body before Daryl walked through the door and around the bed. Paul heard him undress, then get into the bed beside him, yet still so far apart that it was like they were in different rooms. But Daryl moved, and a second later, his arms were around him, his body pressed against his. Paul didn’t bother to stifle the relieved sigh that escaped his lips.

"I'll go," Daryl said, his low voice and his warm breath making his skin react instantly. "Even if I have no idea what kind of stupid suicide mission this is—I’ll go with you."


	18. 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check the end notes for additional tags / trigger warning to be safe!

14 MONTHS AGO.

 

"Here, big boy, drink some of this."

Daryl pulled his head from under the sink cabinet and found Tammy standing there, red hair as scrubby as ever, offering him a glass of something that had a suspiciously yellow color.

"The hell is that? Looks like piss."

"It's fruit juice, you moron. It'll help you quench your thirst, you're sweating like a pig."

Daryl sat on the floor and picked up the glass. "Pigs don’t sweat," he said after drinking a welcome big gulp.

"What?"

"Pigs don’t sweat, they don’t have sweat glands or whatever, so they don’t sweat."

The frown that crossed Tammy’s face accentuated her expression of perpetual annoyance. "Where did you get that from?"

"Paul told me," he replied carelessly, but he corrected himself immediately, "Jesus."

Tammy smiled slightly, her eyebrows curving, making her look more terrifying than she already did. "Interesting, but, for your knowledge, that’s not the origin of the expression—anyway, so it’s true then, you and Jesus…"

Suddenly, Daryl's thirst was so intense that his throat dried up like a river in the desert. He drank the rest of the juice in one long gulp, handed the glass back to the woman, and put his head back into the cabinet, hoping Tammy hadn’t seen the damn blush that made him feel as if boiling water had been thrown into his face.

"Hide all you want, you can’t fool me."

"Ain’t hiding, and I don’t know what the fuck you’re talkin’ about."

"Are you sure?"

"Ain’t none of your business."

"Oh, maybe you're right, big boy, but you know, people talk, and let me warn you that your beloved neighbors are talking a lot about _this_ particular issue already."

Daryl groaned, the air inside the small compartment growing dense.

"Ain’t giving two shits ‘bout what they say."

"I’m glad to hear that."

He heard Tammy walk away and set the glass down on the metal table in the kitchen. He quickly pulled out his body.

"The fuck are they sayin’?"

Tammy watched him with a blank expression, as if she was trying to contain her satisfaction somehow.

"Nothing you should worry about, it's just gossip."

Daryl knew it wasn’t just gossip, but he tried to convince himself that he didn’t care.

He shifted to lie down to get back under the sink, but the strong pressure that settled in his stomach made him sit up again.

"What are they sayin’?" he asked again, his tone hard.

Tammy drew a smile, something that only happened rarely, softening her features and erasing any trace of whatever it was that always kept her face in that perennial state of resentment. It was like looking at a different woman—she looked younger.

"I told you, nothing that you should worry about, and I mean it, don’t pay any attention to it."

"Couldn't care less about what they say out there, but just so you know, it's none of their business, not yours either. They should mind their own shit, but the only thing they know how to use a knife for is peeling potatoes. And you know what? They’re talking ‘cause they think that Pa—Jesus is always gonna be there to take care of all their problems. The saviors attacked this community only a few days ago, and he was there, at the very front, risking his life, but has anyone asked him how he’s feeling? Nuh-uh! ‘Cause they ain’t givin’ a damn. Of course he's okay; he has the time to fuck around with some dude—yeah, let’s talk about _that_. Fuck them all!"

Daryl drew in some air while a part of him wished that those words hadn’t left his lips.

Tammy stared at him for a long time, barely blinking, then moved to approach the kitchen table and sat down on a chair. "I've never heard anyone talk like that about him," she said. "Defend him in such a way."

"He doesn’t need to be defended, but some gratitude ain’t too much to ask."

To his surprise, Tammy laughed. "Oh, big boy, I completely agree with you, but it's endearingly delightful to see you this angry."

"Fuck you," he snapped, lying down again to continue his work.

"Okay, listen to me now, there’s some truth in what you say about how people treat Jesus, but I can assure you that everyone—or at least the vast majority—appreciates what he does."

Daryl breathed out a hollow laugh.

"I’m being serious," Tammy continued. "I'm sure people stay away from him because of Jesus’s own attitude—he's always been on the sidelines, he's always been a lone wolf, and although I think that's part of his personality, I also think that everything started to get worse after what happened with the little girl." Daryl got out of the cabinet just in time to see Tammy shake her head in dismay. "It was horrible, it was a turning point for everyone—especially him, of course. He pulled back and people felt like it was better to leave him alone. I imagine that, with time, it became normal to treat him that way. He’s a good man, sometimes even more generous than we deserve, but let me tell you one more thing: I knew that thing he had with the nurse wasn’t going anywhere, and even though I kinda feel sorry for Alex, I know it’ll be good for you."

"What?" he asked quickly in an overly defensive tone.

"Having a calm and patient man by your side."

"The hell you sayin’?"

"That you’re more stubborn than a three-headed bull."

"Look who's talking."

"At least I don’t deceive myself, pretending to be more foolish than I really am."

"You’re wrong."

"Are you two together?"

"No."

"See?"

"Okay, fuck this. Yeah, it's true, we're toge—well, no, we ain’t—fuckin’ hell, I ain’t sure, okay? We spend time together and… that's it."

"Are you two intimate?"

Daryl’s head snapped up so fast that he didn’t even notice the blood rushing to his face.

"Look at you, you look like a light bulb about to explode."

Unconsciously, he touched one of his burning cheeks with the back of his hand. Then he hid himself again in the cabinet, though those wooden panels were not enough to muffle Tammy's laughter. He would have complained, but he preferred to pretend that the conversation was not taking place anymore.

"Is this your first relationship?"

"Ain’t a virgin, if that's your fuckin’ question," he grumbled.

"No, that wasn’t my question, stupid boy. I don’t care where you put your meat stick, but I assure you that you have ‘ _inexperienced’_ written all over your forehead."

Daryl sat up again, his head now feeling like a pressure cooker.

"Don’t look at me like that," the woman warned. "You’re acting like it's something to be ashamed of, but it's not. Look, I've only ever been with one man in my life. I met my husband when we were two naive teenagers, and we didn’t separate until his heart took him away from me. After that I didn’t think about anything else than to take care of my family. Then the world got upside down and I ended up here, alone. It doesn’t matter anymore, though; the important thing is that we are alive, everything else is a plus, big boy. Look at this," she said, pulling something from the pocket of her apron, a small piece of wrought iron with the form of a leaf. "Earl gave this to me the other day, he said that the color of my hair reminded him of autumn."

"The blacksmith?"

Tammy laughed. "Yes. I can’t deny it, it's an original way to try to win a woman’s heart, but he will need to work a little harder, _this_ woman is even more pigheaded than you are."

Tammy shook her head and rose from the chair, resting her hands on her knees, cursing.

"I know what they're sayin’," Daryl said before Tammy could leave the narrow kitchen. "Is that what you think as well?"

Tammy’s eyebrows twitched a fraction, even though she clearly knew what he was talking about. Daryl wasn’t an idiot, and he didn’t need to know what they were saying to imagine what they were thinking. Yet one day he had overheard a conversation—he would have liked to break the teeth of each and every one of them, but in the end, the despondency had been stronger than his anger.

"Didn’t you just say you didn’t give two shits about it?"

"I don’t."

"But we both know that’s not true, right?"

Well, yeah, and even though he hated the fact that this was really affecting him, he knew there was nothing he could do about it.

"Look, big boy, are you happy?"

"Yes…"

"What about Jesus, is he happy?"

"I… yeah… I suppose so."

"Then what me or others think shouldn’t matter." She walked back into the kitchen, opened the old, rusted refrigerator, and pulled out a couple of beers, handing him one, then Tammy hit her bottle against his. "Fuck them all."

 

* * *

 

 

TODAY.

 

Finding a couple of cars which engines weren’t damaged had taken them most of the morning. Tara had ridden with him on Sirius while Mandy and Marcus had done the same on a palomino mare. Daryl couldn’t help glancing at the animal from time to time. Even though her body was covered with a patch of golden ochre hair, there was something about that mare that reminded him of Dama. Perhaps it was her blond, almost whitish hair, or maybe it was because it was one of the horses Paul had taken out before going back into the stables to look for Sirius.

At that moment, when the explosion of one of the cars had blown up most of the building, Daryl had still been struggling to accept that the lifeless body lying on the muddy ground was really Tammy's. The image of the fire was still vivid in his head, and many had been affected by it, but his eyes hadn’t been able to look away from Paul and his horse. Sirius had fallen to the ground beside him, though the animal had risen and run away quickly, frightened and dazed, leaving him with wounds on his legs and body.

However, he knew that he would never be able to forget the look he’d seen in Paul’s eyes—despair and panic. He had seen him crawl on the ground, determined to go back into that hell of flames again. He’d run to stop him despite his more than frantic protests. He’d struggled to keep him away from the stables—they had fucking fought until Paul had given up. Daryl had been grateful to that part of Paul's conscience that still had seemed to be working, because otherwise, he knew that he wouldn’t have been able to hold him there as he had.

As clear as the memory was, he still couldn’t believe that all this had really happened, that in only a few hours, and a group of merely nine people—six, who‘d actually managed to get into the colony—had done so much damage to them.

The next day, reality had struck him like thunder when they’d watched different flames, the ones that had consumed the remains of those who’d fallen. Even worse when he’d seen Tammy’s house, so fucking new and perfect, on his way to Barrington House. Daryl had stared impassively at it, hoping that the door would open at any moment and Tammy would appear there with her familiar red hair.

It hadn’t happened, and sorrow had suddenly given way to a rage laden with helplessness.

He’d wanted to be angry with someone, he’d _needed_ to be angry with someone, and since he had already killed the motherfucker who’d tried to flee on one of their bikes, he had focused all his anger towards the closest person indirectly responsible.

Paul.

Carol had told him that he was being unfair—the last thing Paul needed was that his biggest support in Hilltop also turned his back on him. Carol had been right, but he couldn’t help feel that way; it was hard to think clear in a situation like this, and he hadn’t been able to be reasonable when he’d heard Paul take full responsibility over the deaths of the siblings either—no, it had pissed him off even more.

Although, if there was something that embarrassed him above anything else, then it was to have become one of _them_ , one of those neighbors who only saw Paul as a tool and only looked at him from a distance without caring about the person he was, and denying him to be a human for once. But Daryl knew that Paul was probably suffering more than anyone else at the moment—beating himself up in silence with resentment, guilt, and grief.

And what had he done about it? He had yelled at him, pointed his finger just like everyone else was doing. He had accused him directly of being the cause of the whole disaster.

Ironically, he’d almost panicked when Paul had left the trailer after he’d spat out all that venom in his face. At that moment, he’d thought that everything was over, that the end had finally come for them. As much as he’d wanted to be angry with Paul, he had realized then, in the worst possible way, how much he needed him by his side, and how late it was to ask for forgiveness—again.

Somehow, he would have imagined him leaving Hilltop, though he knew that Paul wouldn’t do something like that, he wouldn’t abandon them at a time like this, even if it was what they all deserved. He then wondered if that time would come some day, Paul’s disappointment in people wearing out his patience so much that he’d decide to tell them all to just fuck off.

Luckily for all of them, it hadn’t happened yet. Yes, they were fucking fortunate, though none of those who now looked at him with accusing eyes were able to realize it. He was too, behind all that stubbornness, he knew he was lucky because, despite all their damn problems, Paul kept coming back to him.

Daryl wasn’t stupid, though, he knew that it wasn’t because he had much to offer; he knew that if the relationship ended tomorrow, Paul would be the one who’d be able to move on and probably find someone else who’d be better for him than Daryl ever could. Maybe that was the reason why he’d felt that indescribable aching when he’d seen him leave Alex's trailer. He’d realized how replaceable he really was; and to the contrary, he knew he could never find anyone he could trust as much as he trusted Paul.

He had spent most of that night hugging Paul, awake, perhaps because of his inability to sleep or perhaps because of the fear to open his eyes and find him gone. They hadn’t talked much, Daryl had just asked him about the wounds and Paul had told him that it had been a silly accident.

After the shower the next morning, Paul had told him that he would go to talk to Maggie. He had no idea how that conversation had gone, he just knew that when they had returned with the cars and Dante, Maggie had seemed to be in a worse mood than the day before.

Still, here she was, sitting next to him in the backseat of the Toyota Prius they had found, as Paul drove them to Alexandria and Eugene explained the advantages of what they were about to propose to Rick for the millionth time. None of them seemed to listen to him, though, and in the end, Eugene's words became just an annoying background noise.

Arriving at Alexandria and seeing those faces, unfamiliar to their tragedy, smiling and welcoming them, only worsened their mood. Everyone understood that something was wrong quickly enough, even before any of them could open their mouths to inform them.

Rick and Michonne greeted Maggie with long, emotional hugs while Maggie, the leader of Hilltop, stepped aside leaving room for Maggie Rhee—their Maggie—who barely managed to hide her tears.

 

***

 

"Colorado?"

Rick's voice sounded high-pitched with stupefaction; it didn’t surprise any of them. Daryl had reacted like that when Paul had finally explained the details of what he’d discussed with Eugene, and he imagined Maggie having responded in the same way.

The six of them sat in the living room after being offered something to drink. Rosita was there too.

Daryl sat in a chair by one of the windows, listening to the conversation as if it had nothing to do with him. It definitely was a stupid idea, leaving the colonies was already risky even if all they did was to prowl the area, who knew what could be awaiting them more than a thousand miles away. Yet there was a part of him being strongly attracted to the plan. He imagined that part of the reason was that he would give an arm right now to be out of Hilltop, but he was also sure that there was another part of him wanting to go because he couldn’t bear the thought of being apart from Paul again, especially if the trip meant that the possibilities of returning in one piece—in case they came back at all—were completely remote.

He shifted between boredom and discomfort, and when he returned his attention to the group, his eyes met Paul's. Since they’d arrived, Paul had barely opened his mouth; he’d let Eugene and Maggie carry the conversation while the rest listened intently to their explanations.

"Is there no other option? There has to be another way to produce the energy we need," Michonne said.

"Generators, but for them we would need oil, diesel, or gas, all of them non-renewable resources and which quality has probably been affected over the years. I mean the stored, of course, producing our own is completely unfeasible right now," Eugene said. "Another option would be hydraulic energy, but we’d need to find a waterfall nearby and setting it up, right now, also escapes our possibilities. Then there’s wind power, but there’s still logistic problems. Believe me, if I have proposed the solar panels, it’s because I consider it to be the most viable option."

Rick exhaled loudly, rubbing his eyes. "Can’t we just check the nearest villages and try to find ordinary panels?"

Eugene looked at Paul, as if they’d already had that conversation. "Yes, of course you can, but self-supply through solar panels wasn’t very common before the outbreak, we already raided all we could find for our settlements, and we could spend months looking for all the material we need. The risk in the long run is pretty much the same."

Rick leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

"Listen Rick, I know it's dangerous," Maggie said. "I reacted the same way, the plan sounds crazy, but the theory is reasonable, and having direct communication between the three communities and the outposts would give us a lot of advantage, besides saving us a lot of unnecessary trips."

There was an expectant silence; Daryl could even hear his heartbeat throbbing in his ears.

Rick sighed again. "I know it's a good idea, but—"

"But what!" Rosita snapped. "Just look for a group of people willing to do it and that's it, what's the damn problem?"

"I can’t send people out there lightly, Rosita."

"You aren’t forcing them, you fill them in, and then they’ll decide what they wanna do. It's as simple as that." She turned to look at him and then at Paul. "If you agree to go, I’m in."

"Rick—"

"I need to think about it," he interrupted before Maggie continued. "Give me time until tomorrow."

"First thing in the morning, Rick. I don’t want to be out of Hilltop for long and we still have to visit Ezekiel."

To everyone's surprise, Rick smiled. "I always knew you'd be a great leader," he said, rising from his seat. "Of course you have more courage than I do."

"Maybe I do." Maggie returned the smile.

"Okay, I'll give you an answer tomorrow. Now let's have something to eat."

 

***

 

"Would you come?" Daryl asked Aaron after handing him the last dry and clean plate.

"I would like to, but I don’t think I'm in the best of conditions right now. I'm convinced that I’d be more of a burden than a help—but hey, I’m feeling better, really, I feel a lot better," he said, though it wasn’t clear if Aaron was trying to convince Daryl or himself. "You know, I've been thinking about setting up a small gym, the house is big enough, I'm sure I'll find a suitable corner, so I could get back in shape."

"What you need is to empty your head of bullshit, not pump up your muscles."

Aaron laughed. "Maybe you're right, but I guess some exercise would help, too."

After placing the last glass in its place, Aaron looked behind them, into the empty living room where the fireplace crackled with an irregular but hypnotic rhythm.

"How are you feeling?" Aaron asked, softly. "I know you had a special relationship with the woman with the red hair, Tammy, right?"

Daryl didn't answer; it was so obvious that he felt there was nothing to say, and perhaps, if he acted as if nothing had happened, everything would eventually turn into a blur, where it would be hard to distinguish what was real and what was not.

Aaron nodded silently, understanding.

"He was very quiet over dinner, right?" he said, moving the conversation into another dangerous territory, but trying to sound as casual as he could.

Daryl shrugged almost spontaneously. Paul had vanished after dinner, at first he’d thought that he’d be smoking some of that weed he was sure he brought with him from his visit to The Kingdom, but there’d been no trace of him on the porch.

"Everything sucks right now."

Aaron turned and leaned his hip against the counter. "Have you both talked?"

"We did… more or less, but after everything happening, I don’t know where the fuck we stand. I can’t get close to him, it's like we're strangers again, it's like—" he growled exasperatedly. "I understand him, Aaron, okay? I understand how he feels, but I can’t stand seeing him like this, accepting responsibilities that ain’t his when he has to deal with enough shit himself already—and I can’t do anything, ain’t sure of what the hell to do, ‘cause I'm afraid that if I approach him, he’ll run away like the last time. And I can’t fuckin’ stand it, man—this… this ain’t him, this ain’t the person I fell—oh fuck. The other day, he asked me to give him some time."

"Well, give him some time then."

"Dunno if that’ll be enough, and ain’t sure if I have the fucking patience to deal with this anymore."

"Then what do you wanna do, do you want to end the relationship?"

Daryl stepped back. Aaron had only asked a question, simple words, but he’d felt them like a punch in the pit of his stomach.

"No— _no_ ," he repeated fiercely, as if that question didn’t make any sense, in fact it didn’t, not for him, or at least, it hadn’t until then.

"Then you’ll have no choice but to deal with it, Daryl. No one said that having a relationship was easy; it wasn’t even back when our biggest concern had been to arrive in time for the prime time session every evening, imagine what it means _now_. So either you talk to him or you give him the time he's asked for. But let’s be clear, if you want this to work, you're gonna have to be patient, he's done it for you in the past, do it for him now."

Aaron was right, but the frustration he felt was too strong to ignore so easily; he couldn’t just sit there and wait, he knew he couldn’t.

"I want him back, and can’t lose him too…" he said in a rippled voice, almost unaware that the words had come out of his mouth.

"He will be, because, after all, _he's still here_ , Daryl. Don’t forget that."

"Shit man, I’m sorry, I’m acting like a fuckin’ asshole again."

"No, you aren’t. I understand your concerns, but it’s just that we usually tend to forget how fortunate we are. You know? The last fight I had with Eric was when we decided to attack the saviors’ outpost. When we got home, after the conversation with Rick, he kept repeating that we didn’t know what we were getting ourselves into, that we couldn’t trust Jesus, that the plan was insane and immoral, that we knew nothing about them, that maybe they were innocent or far more dangerous than we could expect, that we were being foolish—fuck. It was a horrible fight. I was afraid to come back after what happened, after what _we_ did. I was afraid to come home and look at his face. Now, I wish I could have all the arguments in the world."

Aaron turned off the lights that illuminated the kitchen’s working area. "Listen, Daryl, I can’t tell you what you should do, except that if you both are meant to be together, you’ll find your way. Now, if you don’t mind, I'm going to sit down and read for a while."

Daryl left Aaron in the living room and went out to the porch to smoke, sitting on an uncomfortable wooden chair. From there, he could see the white painting of the church tower contrasting against the darkness of the night. He remembered the first and last time he’d been there. The moment he’d realized how much Paul's presence affected him, and the endless peace he’d felt when he was at his side. At that time, when he was suffering the uncertainty of another loss, and everything had seemed to be crumbling, Paul had offered him a space to open up, and for a few minutes, he’d felt a ray of hope growing inside him; for a moment, he’d believed that everything could be okay.

He wondered if Paul was there now, if he was using that little room as a place to hide as they had done that night, and as he’d done with Barrington House’s viewpoint; a place where he could go to clear his mind.

He hoped not, because that would only prove how much he’d failed him after claiming over and over again that he would always be by his side. A year ago, Paul had helped him when they couldn’t even consider themselves friends, and now that they were boyfriends—or whatever shit people wanted to label their relationship—he was here, looking at that tower from a distance.

If he could, he would have kicked his own ass, but since he couldn’t, he simply got up from his chair and left the porch. He walked through the empty streets of Alexandria without taking his eyes off the church, it was only a few yards away from Aaron's house, and although he didn’t meet anyone on the way, he almost turned around before he heard some noises on the other side of the building, where the Alexandrians had set up some kind of training place with different wooden dummies and other training devices.

His stomach twisted straightaway. Paul was there, alone, fighting against one of those wooden posts. His hair was tied up and in spite of the cold, he was only wearing a shirt. He had a knife in each hand, and he was stirring, striking forcefully and precisely, moving fast even though it seemed not to be enough, if his exasperated grunts were taken into account.

He stopped after each exercise, stretching his muscles and muttering under his breath. Then he began again, confronting his imaginary opponent as if his life depended on it. Daryl could even see the splinters of the totem flying away in the middle of the night.

Daryl crept forward, leaning his back against the church's facade as he watched him. If he weren’t so fucking proud, he was sure he wouldn’t mind asking Paul to teach him how to fight like that. Maybe someday he would, when his dignity wouldn’t be an obstacle anymore and Paul's strokes wouldn’t be as full of anger as they were now.

He reached into his pockets, pulled out a cigarette, and placed it between his lips. He was absolutely convinced that he hadn’t made any alarming noise, but whatever he’d done had been enough to get Paul's attention. He stopped his exercise immediately, stiffening, as his hands tightened around the handle of his knives. Still, he didn’t turn around to see who was there.

"I think he's already dead," Daryl said, lighting the cigarette. "Also, shouldn’t you wait till it’s daytime so at least you can see where you're stabbin’ your knives?"

Paul didn’t move, standing as still as a statue, his arms falling on either side of his hips. Then he shifted slightly, and with a swift movement, he thrust his knife into the lower part of the wooden dummy where Daryl could imagine his poor manhood was.

When Paul stepped back, the knife remained there, completely straight. Then he turned to look at him, the moonlight that managed to cut through the thick clouds illuminated his face, and even though his eyes were hidden by the shadow of his eyebrows, Daryl still could see a distinctive glow in them. His expression, however, was impossible to read.

Daryl puffed his cigarette and waited, but Paul said nothing, and a few seconds passed until he moved his right arm and grasped the handle of the knife, taking it back easily. Paul’s eyes didn’t move away from him, not even when he threw the knife into the air, catching it by the blade, and then, without a warning, he threw it forward so quickly that Daryl only realized what was happening when he heard the thump of the knife crashing into the church’s wooden boards, a few inches from his face.

Daryl took the cigarette before it could fell from his lips, but he only turned in time to see Paul pick up the other knife and do exactly the same—the knife materialized instantly on the other side of his head.

He stepped out of there hastily. "You fuckin’ crazy?!" he snapped, unable to comprehend what was going on.

Paul rolled up his sleeves even further as the only answer. Annoyed, Daryl threw the cigarette away. The fucking crazy chatterbox, he wanted a fight? Well, he could have it. He took off his jacket, dropping it down without giving two shits where it had landed and then he moved forward. Paul was ready to receive any of his blows instantly, and he knew that the fucker would be able to dodge each of them too. But he wasn’t going to give up so quickly. No. He was not going to give him the satisfaction. He was attacking him a second later, despite being more than aware that he was making the same mistake as always—acting impulsively.

Paul grabbed his arm before his fist could barely get near his face, and with a swift movement of his leg, managed to unbalance him and throw him to the ground. Daryl didn’t waste time and rose hurriedly, rushing towards him again; in just a blink, his back hit the wet and cold ground. He groaned, but he stood back up again, though this time struggling a little more when he felt pain in his chest where Paul had hit him to knock him down.

He was going to destroy him.

He took a deep breath and watched him. Paul had his back to him, and he could tell that he was tired by the way he kept stretching his muscles. But this was no time to feel sorry for him, and he took advantage of that to lash out at him. Even before he could realize it, Paul had already gripped his arm, turned, and twisted it against his back. The pain was so intense that he couldn’t stop the whine that exploded in his throat, and before he could respond, his cheek was already pressed against the mud.

"I'm gonna kill you," he grunted as he sat up.

"How? You'd be dead by now, archer."

He wasn’t listening; the rage, and something else that he preferred to ignore, were lighting his body. He got up, and ran up to him. He tried to hit Paul in the stomach, but Paul blocked his fist, then grabbed his arm and twisted it back again, sending him to the ground.

"Fuckin’ hell!"

"You're still making the same mistakes. _Think_ for once in your fucking life, Daryl. Study your opponent, this is a fight of life and death!" he said, retrieving one of the knives.

Study your opponent; seek for their weak points. He knew that Paul had some bruises on his body as well as a wound on his right thigh he had seen last night. Okay, if he wanted to play dirty, they would play dirty.

He stood up, wiping the mud from his face with the sleeve of his shirt, then unbuttoned the cuffs and rolled them up. The cold night having no effect on either of them.

He moved carefully, not taking his eyes off Paul, who watched him closely, and without losing sight of the object he held in his right hand. He had to take the knife from him, hitting him on his arm might be enough, but he knew that getting to that point would be a little bit complicated.

With slow but decisive steps, he approached Paul. He had to trick him, find a way to mislead him, plan his moves as he hadn’t done so far. He tried it once, and failed. He tried it a second time, but Paul anticipated his intentions again. Then he tried for the third time, making him believe that he was going for a blow to the head. Paul blocked his arm quickly, but Daryl used his knee to hit him on the injured thigh. Paul's scream of pain almost made him regret what he’d done, but the uneasiness lasted for as long as Paul turned, sinking an elbow into his stomach. Daryl whined, but didn’t let him go, and the two ended up on the ground, struggling, until Daryl finally managed to keep Paul still under him, taking the knife away.

For a second, he was unable to contain the satisfied smile that molded his lips, but he couldn’t ignore the electrical tingling that ran through each of his pores either. Their agitated breaths made their chests press against each other—they were so fucking close, and Daryl had missed him so much that his body reacted immediately. His pants tightened almost painfully around his crotch, and he would have imagined himself cursing aloud if it hadn't been for the fact that Paul circled his hips with his legs and sent him back against the muddy ground with a swift movement. He wanted to use the knife somehow, but he realized that he no longer had it when he felt the blade against his neck.

He was going to end him—or that’s what he thought until he closed his eyes, almost forgetting everything that was going on when Paul rubbed his body against his.

"I hope you're not thinking about fucking all your rivals when we're out there, archer."

It was impossible to define how his voice had sounded, whether there was resentment, frustration, or desire in it. Perhaps it was a mixture of all three; it didn’t matter anyway, because his body had definitely decided not to care about his pride anymore—after all, there was only one thing that he wanted to show Paul, and it had nothing to do with winning a fight.

All of a sudden, nothing mattered, not the sweat, not the mud that stained his face, making the locks of hair that had come loose from his bun stick to his forehead and cheeks. The physical or emotional wounds weren’t important anymore, not even the knife that was still firmly pressed under his chin. Daryl rose slightly, taking Paul's face with both hands, and captured his lips hungrily.

Maybe it was because he wasn’t sure what kind of reaction he was expecting from him, or whether he’d actually expected anything at all, but he couldn’t contain the groan of relief when Paul pulled the knife aside and moved his mouth against his with the same bleakness.

It could have been minutes or simply seconds since the kiss had gone from impulsive to desperate. Daryl noticed Paul's fingers working quickly with the buckle of his belt, before he sat up and began to unfasten his own.

Shit, he couldn’t believe how much he'd missed this, how much he wanted him, how much he loved him.

Paul got up then and Daryl protested, already longing for the pressure of his body on his. But he followed him while Paul walked backward until his back met the facade of the church. In a second Daryl was in front of him. Paul grabbed the waistband of his pants and pulled him closer, their crotches meeting again. Fuck, they were both so hard already that his heart went completely insane, and before he knew it, Paul had already slipped his hand into his pants.

"Fuck me."

This had to be a dream or maybe not, the hell did he know. The only thing he could do was to gasp as soon as Paul's fingers closed around him. He leaned forward to kiss him again, but Paul turned around, pulling his pants down and exposing himself just enough to the chill of the night.

"Paul—"

"Do it."

He felt the blood flow like a stream through his veins, but he couldn’t stop himself, and slid a finger between his buttocks, touching him as he hadn’t for a long time; Paul trembled under his touch, but Daryl also felt the stiffness of his muscles.

"Paul—"

"Do it, dammit!"

The excitement was blurring his mind, but there was also a remote part of his conscience screaming at him to stop.

_Shut up._

He spat in the palm of his hand and rubbed his throbbing erection. Still, the friction was too much to handle, even when all he did was to slide a finger inside him. Paul moaned, murmuring again and again for him to stop fooling around and to fuck him. Daryl's ears pounded away any sound that might disturb that quiet night. He tried to slick his cock with saliva again, but Paul gasped in pain when he tried to give him what he was so desperately asking for.

He was going to go crazy—no, in fact, he knew that the two of them had already surpassed the limit of sanity and now were lost in a limbo, hoping that their paths would cross again somehow.

Daryl gave up after another attempt while Paul gasped, hiding his face between his arms, and forced him to turn until his back slammed back against the church's wooden cladding.

"What the fuck do you want?" Daryl snapped, pissed, jaded, and so aroused that he thought he was about to faint.

"You."

"No, that's not what you want."

"It's all I want," Paul said and his hand gripped his cock again, stroking it firmly.

Daryl closed his eyes with an exhausted groan, and let himself fall over him, burying his head in his hair. "What's happenin’? What's happening to us?" he asked in a choked voice.

"Honestly… I don’t know."

"Thought you always had an answer… for everything."

"Not this time. Now, shut up."

Paul moved his fingers along his length for a few more seconds, then he stopped and slid his hands down his lower back, pulling down his pants, and grabbing his ass. He pulled Daryl against him, placing a thigh between his and beginning to rub against him. Trapped between them, their cocks brushed against each other. Daryl felt his skin burn while all those questions, still dancing in his head, slowly vanished, giving him room to finally _feel_.

It took him a moment, but Daryl caught the rhythm and began to move against Paul. He kept his eyes open, watching him, his face only inches from his, eyes closed, long lashes fluttering from time to time, lips slightly parted.

He wanted to kiss him, but he feared to interrupt the slow and steady rhythm, building the pleasure to a fever pitch.

It felt physically cathartic, but as the minutes stretched, Daryl felt a faint pang of uneasiness. What if this was only something they needed? What if this was just sex? What would come after?

He didn’t want to, but he tried to pull away from him, yet Paul's hand pressed down his spine to hold him in place. That made them moan at the same time. Paul buried his face into Daryl's burning cheek, and Daryl felt his quick, warm, heavy breath. Shit, he was so close.

"Paul—"

"Don’t say anything…"

He nodded—what else could he do? His brain had stopped working for some time now, so he let his body take command, pressing even harder against Paul, urging him to move a little faster, enough to walk right on the edge of a cliff, ready to let themselves fall, and slowly and deliciously towards their orgasm.

Strangely enough, both restrained themselves when they finally came, drowning their cries, Daryl against Paul's hair, and Paul against his neck, as if they didn’t want to disrupt the peace of the moment.

Neither of them said anything as their breaths settled to a slower pace, staying like this until Paul grabbed the waistband of Daryl’s pants and placed it back on his hips.

"Let's go sleep," Paul said, the exhaustion more than noticeable in his voice. "I'm sure tomorrow will be a long day of discussions."

Paul didn’t wait for an answer; he adjusted his own pants and then stood there for a while, pressing his flat palm against Daryl’s chest, feeling his frantic heartbeat pounding against his hand. Paul then looked up again with a vulnerable expression he couldn’t quite read, but Daryl thought he was sensing relief in him. Then Paul stepped back and walked away without another word.

When Daryl entered the house, Aaron was still sitting in his armchair by the fireplace; his attention however was not on the book on his lap. One of his eyebrows was raised.

"What the hell happened, you both out—it’s okay, never mind, I don’t wanna know."

Good, because it was not like Daryl would go into detail now. He turned to leave but met his image in the mirror over one of the living room drawers: his hair was disheveled, damp, and muddy, little leaves tangled up everywhere. His face was dirty, sprinkled with lines that the sweat had drawn on the layers of mud and dust. He looked down, his clothes were an even worse mess, and yet, he wanted to go back to the training camp and feel Paul like he hadn’t in what felt like years again.

"Everything alright, then?" Aaron asked, forcing him back to the present.

Daryl shook his head, completely bewildered, because even after what had happened, he didn’t really have an answer. He was not even able to wish him goodnight, just headed to the stairs, hearing Aaron's faint laughter in the background.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can absolutely skip the following:
> 
> **Attempted self-harm:** please skip from the paragraph that starts with “This had to be a dream or maybe not, the hell he knew.” until the dialogue line "Not this time. Now, shut up."
> 
> **Conflicting/ambivalent smut:** please skip from the paragraph starting with “This had to be a dream or maybe not, the hell he knew.” until: "Paul—" - "Don’t say anything…"


	19. 17

7 MONTHS AGO.

 

"You sure you’re okay?"

"Yes. Why?" Daryl didn’t bother to turn around to answer him, which was understandable, considering how badly he was hiding the discomfort as he walked in front of him.

"Are you hurt?"

"What kind of question is that? It was a big fuckin’ fall. You’re having trouble too, or do you think I haven’t seen how you groan every time you sit down?"

"Of course you do, because I don’t try to act like it doesn’t hurt. I have a bruise of the size of a buffalo's head on my left side."

It had been a stupid accident, and not only because the fall itself could have been enough to kill both of them, but because they’d been fully aware that walking through that old building was not the smartest thing they could do. They hadn’t found any walkers inside, that was true, and it was the shortest way to reach one of the multiple pedestrian bridges, which were over the Chesapeake and Ohio canal; a route that would allow them to cross the city, following the riverbank, without having to walk the empty streets of the city of Washington.

However, the plan had crashed down with them and the floor of the building. They hadn’t even had time to react; the floor had come down suddenly, just a loud noise and everything had collapsed under their feet in a matter of seconds.

They’d been able to get out on their own, fortunately, but Paul had hurt his ribs pretty badly and now his side ached as if a train had hit him. For his part, Daryl had fallen on a pile of debris, but apart from a few scratches, he’d said he was fine. Yet they’d decided to stop for the day to rest. Paul had suggested returning to The Kingdom, which had been only 3 miles away from there, and get a car, but Daryl had refused.

Now, two days later, they were walking along the path through the woods on the banks of the Potomac River.

"We should’ve gone back to get a car."

"Coming on foot was _your_ damn idea," Daryl rumbled.

Paul shook his head. "Sometimes, I wonder if your stubbornness is just persistence or if you just hear whatever you want."

"Are we close yet?" Daryl asked tiredly, ignoring him.

"We’re about two miles from there, but we should stop, it's getting dark."

Daryl didn’t object, and a few yards ahead, they crossed the canal again to find an empty house to stay the night.

The generalized liberation everyone had felt after the war with the saviors had caused many of them to relax—too much, in fact—and begin to behave as if everything had returned to a normality which, in reality, would take a lot more time to reach.

Hershel had been born only a month ago, but he was not the only baby on the way. The doctors from The Kingdom and Harlan had decided to meet to study the current situation. Improving the infrastructure was a priority, no doubt, although the Kingdom had it much easier than Hilltop, and especially than Alexandria, where they didn’t even have a doctor at the time.

After two days of conversations, Ezekiel had decided to offer the help of one of his nurses to Hilltop and one of the three doctors they had to Alexandria, and while they planned how to improve the means at their disposal, they had organized different groups to go out to look for all medical supplies they could find.

Paul and Daryl, who’d accompanied Harlan on the trip, had volunteered to take a look at the hospital located further north. It had sounded like an interesting plan, and the two of them had agreed almost instantly. Getting lost in the woods for a few hours was always a tempting idea, but now they’d wasted three days on a run that shouldn’t have taken them more than one.

With a deep growl, Daryl slumped down the porch’s steps of the first house they saw. Paul looked at him closely; his face was pale, too much for his comfort, especially considering that they’d been walking for two hours.

"Seriously Daryl, you sure you’re okay?"

"Yeah…" he said wistfully, taking out a pack of cigarettes."You check the house; I stay here watching."

Struggling to look away from him, Paul examined the one-story house. He didn’t like it. He studied the surroundings until he saw a narrow three-story house a couple of blocks down the street. He decided to approach that one. Paul glanced quickly back, Daryl was smoking his cigarette, completely worn out, and when he returned after checking if the house was empty, he found him with his head resting on the rail of the stairs.

Paul crouched in front of him immediately. "Daryl. Da—"

Daryl sat up abruptly, drawing one of his knives. "What?"

"You don’t look so well."

"Told you m’fine… jus’ tired. M’too old for this shit."

Daryl got up with slow, heavy movements, refusing the help Paul offered him, and once in the house, he went straight into the living room, throwing himself on the dusty couch.

"It was supposed to be your turn to keep watch tonight," Paul said, more like a provocative comment than a real complaint.

Daryl murmured something unintelligible against the cushions. Paul approached him and sat down in the little gap that was left, but Daryl seemed to have fallen asleep already. Paul touched his cheek and forehead—they were not too hot. He sighed, maybe he was just tired, as he’d said; he was too.

Paul reached for a blanket and put it over Daryl, then climbed to the highest point of the house with the binoculars in hand. The sun was already setting, but he had a good view of the hospital; it was only a few blocks away and it was a large enclosure. Paul cursed under his breath, it would take them hours to check the whole place and at that moment, all he wanted was to return to the Kingdom as soon as possible. He didn’t have a good feeling, and for most of the night, his nerves amplified as he paced from one room to the other, always stopping in the living room where Daryl had barely moved, while his body temperature had slowly increased.

It might’ve been half an hour before dawn when Paul entered one of the rooms upstairs, opening drawers and cupboards hastily until he finally found a candle. But before he could go back to the first floor, he heard something. He went to one of the windows and listened to the engine of a car grunting in the distance. He followed the sound through the various rooms until he located it. With the binoculars he saw a pickup similar to the ones usually used by the saviors, in fact, and even from that distance, he thought he recognized some of them as he watched them get out of the car after parking next to the hospital that they were supposed to explore that same day.

"You have to be fucking kidding me," he mumbled.

He reluctantly ran down the stairs to the living room; Daryl was still lying on the couch. Paul sat beside him and lit the candle he placed on a nearby side table.

"Daryl… Daryl, love, wake up," he said, gently touching his face. He was burning, sweating, and shivering under the blanket. "Daryl, come on, you have to wake up and talk to me—"

"Lemme sleep some more," he murmured without opening his eyes.

"How do you feel? Are you in pain?"

"Close the window…"

"Fuck," he snorted. "Okay…"

Ignoring Daryl’s denials, Paul pulled the blanket back and began to examine him. It didn’t take him long until he found a tear in the back of his shirt, hidden under his jacket—it was wet and stained with blood.

"What’re you doin’… m’not in the mood," he roared sleepily when Paul began to lift his clothes.

"Shut up, damn it."

There was a small but deep wound on the lower part of his back; the skin around it was alarmingly red, and it was suppurating strongly.

"Shit…"

Paul hopped from the couch and rummaged in each of the three bathrooms in the house. When he returned, he carried bandages, alcohol, and all the pill bottles he’d found.

He began cleaning the wound despite Daryl’s complaints, who snarled every time he brushed his skin with the dressing. Then he searched through the bottles and gave him some pills to treat the fever and ease the pain. But he still needed antibiotics he didn’t have there, and they couldn’t walk the distance that separated them from the Kingdom with Daryl in this state.

Paul ran into the garage of the house, there were two cars, but after long and distressing attempts, neither of them started.

"Fuck!" he shouted, pounding on the steering wheel.

He needed the medication and a fucking car. No, he needed a fucking car first and then they could get the medicines in the Kingdom. Or—

He got out of the car and ran back into the house, going up the stairs, two at a time, to the third floor. The saviors’ pickup was still there, next to the hospital.

Meds _and_ a car.

When he entered the living room again, Daryl was still in the same place, motionless, only his agitated breathing revealed his internal struggle.

"Daryl, I have to go out. I'll go get a car and—"

"What? No… no… wait—m’going with you," he said, dragging the words as he tried to get up without being able to move even a little.

"No, Daryl, listen, you need medication and we have to leave as soon as possible, I won’t—"

"No…"

"Daryl, don’t make me block all the damn doors and windows, because I fucking will."

"I know…" he said, eyes still closed.

"I'll be right back, okay? Don’t… don’t move from here."

As if that seemed even a possibility at the moment.

Paul stroked his damp hair and pressed his lips on his forehead, offering a warm kiss. Then he bolted from the house.

Running, it took him only ten minutes to get to the complex. If he hadn’t seen it before, the pickup would have passed almost unnoticed among the other amount of cars scattered alongside the main building. He approached it carefully. There were dead walkers on the ground, but near the car, everything seemed deserted.

Trying to pass as unnoticed as possible, he peered into the vehicle. The keys were not on, of course. He thought for a moment, the meds were right there, but so was the car, he could take it—borrow it—and take Daryl to The Kingdom where he would be taken care of properly. But he was afraid—no, he was not afraid, he was fucking terrified that the infection would go into his blood. He’d read about it, just as he had read about so many other stupid things that had fueled his farce existence, and now he wondered why the hell he had done it. Ignorance, however useless, could free you from more than one headache, and right now, he didn’t need his head to be fed by his hyperactive mind.

He looked at the red brick building. He could come in, introduce himself, and explain what the situation was; they were allies after all. That was only a fallacy though; they’d only reached a non-aggression agreement that meant nothing at all. Besides, he couldn’t help but suspect that their presence there, right now, was not a coincidence.

Fuck everything. He _needed_ the meds.

He exhaled deeply and took the first secure access he could find. It was surprisingly dark and cold inside the building, and also very quiet.

He ran down the corridors, trying not to make any noise, but he found nothing except some oblivious walkers he managed to avoid. He looked for the stairs and then went up to the second floor. Nothing was heard yet, so he continued moving, carefully killing every walker in his path, as he tried not to attract the attention of those still inside the rooms.

Minutes later, he found what he was looking for; he still opened the door with caution and peered inside. There were several desks with computers in the main area, and further back, there was a sink and working surfaces that were surrounded by a lot of shelves and cupboards which, with a bit of luck, would be full of medication that he needed.

He started opening doors and drawers, taking out all the material he found, then he took a shoulder bag that he’d found on one of the desks and filled it with all of it. He felt the sweat trickling down his forehead and his breathing was hard.

Paul had checked half of the cabinets when he heard something in the hallway—quiet voices, even though he couldn’t distinguish anything of what they were talking about. He peeked out of the room carefully, the saviors seemed to be some floors above, but certainly were coming down.

Paul cursed, if they recognized him, he was fucked. He looked around, there was a hoodie jacket hanging over the back of a chair. He moved quickly, tying his hair into a lower bun and covering his face with the bandana hanging around his neck. He put the piece of clothing under the jacket he was wearing and covered his head with the hood. Then he slanged the shoulder bag over his left shoulder and peered out again.

The saviors were already on the upper floor.

Before leaving the room, he picked up the thickest sharpie he saw on one of the working tables, then headed for the stairs, knocking on all the doors in his path with the handle of his knife. The walkers awoke from their false lethargy immediately. His pulse rushed and he was certain he would end up choking on his own breath if he didn’t calm down.

He set foot on the first step and looked up; there was no sign of the saviors yet, but he could hear the sound of their heavy boots on the tiled floor. He was not going to stay there to say hello, though he waited long enough for the walkers coming out the rooms to approach the stairs. Then he grabbed the pen and threw it to the other side of the corridor. It landed in the middle, rolling and making enough noise to draw attention from the dead.

He didn’t wait any longer, and by the time he heard the first "What the hell is going on?" he was already running downstairs. He was not sure how long the walkers would be able to hold the saviors back, but it would have to do. Distinct screams and shots could be heard, but he didn’t hesitate, he ran without looking back. Outside, the sun greeted him with its blinding glow as he ran as fast as he could, no matter what he found in his path. Everything around him became fuzzy while his attention was focused on the garnet pickup in the middle of the parking lot. As soon as he reached it, he opened the driver's door and threw the bag into the seat next to it. Then he crouched under the steering wheel and tried to hotwire it. The engine started to complain, but it seemed to have no intention to start after several attempts.

"C’mon, c’mon…"

His hands shook with nerves and adrenaline. In the background, the yells of the saviors were coming closer.

"C’mon, start, damn it!"

The engine made a strange sound, like it was irritated by his bad manners, but suddenly the whole car shuddered and the roar spread throughout the bodywork with a permanent purr.

Paul settled into the driver's seat just as the saviors rushed out of the building. He engaged the reverse gear and stepped on the gas. He heard them shout and raise their guns in the air. Paul pulled a u-turn before he could crash into one of the cars parked there, and then sped out of the parking lot.

A couple of shots rang out, or maybe more—one of them hit the right side of the pickup, but in a matter of seconds, he was out of their reach. Then, the only thing that could be heard both inside and outside the vehicle was the silence, and probably the unbridled heartbeat of his heart.

It took him only a few minutes to get to the house, and a little bit more to find a safe place to hide the car.

Daryl was still on the couch, soaked in sweat and murmuring God knows what when Paul came in. He knelt by the couch, touching Daryl's sweaty face—his blushing cheeks were burning. He looked through all the bottles in the bag, swearing a few times when he felt unable to maintain the control over his body. When he found what he was looking for, he forced Daryl enough into consciousness to make him drink his medicine. Then he dropped down, sitting on the floor and sighing loudly, hoping that the antibiotic would do its job.

"C’mon, Daryl…" he said, taking his hand. "I know you're stronger than this—and definitely more stubborn."

He sighed again, feeling incredibly tired. He rested his head on Daryl’s thigh without letting go of his hand. He gave Daryl the second dose when he thought enough time had passed, and finally let exhaustion crash down on him. He closed his eyes, only for a moment, at least that was what he told himself, but when he opened them again, feeling fingers tangling in his hair, it was already dark.

He looked up and met Daryl's sleepy eyes.

"The hell you doin’ there?" he asked in a tired voice, but with a timid smile on his lips.

"Just waiting for your lazy ass to wake up."

 

* * *

 

TODAY.

 

From his throne, Ezekiel watched them with a look as penetrating as difficult to read. Jerry was standing to his right while Shiva was lying peacefully at his feet, sleeping as any other pet would. Sometimes, Paul wondered which of the two felines would be more threatening if Cat measured a few more inches.

Expectation for the King's response became a tortuous wait. Daryl was standing besides him, leaning against the back of the seat. In front of them were Rosita and Michonne, while Maggie, Rick, and Eugene stood in the middle of the hall.

The knocking on the door of Aaron's house had woken them up before the sun had risen. Michonne had been waiting for them on the porch and her message had been short and concise, "We're leaving." Half an hour later, sitting in the Toyota Prius, Maggie had told them that Rick had made up his mind after dinner. Paul suspected it had been due to a more than persuasive Maggie, but he still hoped that Rick had accepted the plan because he really had agreed on it being a good idea.

Whatever it was, there was a part of him that wished they'd informed them the night before. Maybe that way, he wouldn’t have had the need to go out and thus could have avoided the embarrassing show he'd starred in when Daryl had appeared in the training camp. Not even the sexual liberation could convince him that what had happened had been okay. He hadn’t been in the right state of mind, and even now, present in this old auditorium, and while the others discussed the future of the three communities, his mind kept going back to that unexpected encounter.

He’d also thought about it during what had seemed like endless hours of darkness. How could he not when Daryl had been lying next to him? Paul knew he hadn’t slept either, probably also wondering what the hell had happened. He didn’t have an answer. Well, he actually did; a conclusion he’d reached after scrutinizing his own brain, and of which he was neither convinced nor proud of.

Someone cleared his throat and Paul’s head snapped up, realizing that all eyes were on him.

"You're very quiet, my friend, and that's not like you," Ezekiel said.

He wanted to avoid it, but turned to look at Daryl. He was standing there, his eyes oblivious to everyone else's—fixed on his muddy boots.

"Yes, I'm sorry, I'm a bit tired. Have you asked any questions?" Paul excused himself.

"I was inquiring to hear about your thoughts on this matter"

"Well, it's basically me who made them come, so…"

Ezekiel snorted, evidently waiting for another answer that supported the denial that was clearly courting his tongue. "Okay," he said. "In the hypothetical case that I agree to ignore that this is a suicidal mission, who would go and how could I help?"

Paul was the first to answer, he was followed by Daryl and Rosita, and to everyone’s surprise the next to speak was Rick. Michonne got up immediately, but Rick didn’t let her speak.

"Listen, Michonne, I know," he hastened to explain, approaching her. "I know it's a crazy plan. But we talked about it yesterday, and we both agreed that it's necessary. I understand Maggie not going, and staying here is Ezekiel's choice—I can’t judge him. But I _can’t_ do it, you know I can’t. I couldn’t just sit here and wait."

"Rick—"

"Alexandria will be fine under your command. I know."

Michonne's lips twisted in a grimace. "So, I see you've already decided that I’m staying."

"I'm not forcing you, but I'm asking you to do it—for me. Please. I couldn’t leave Alexandria and Carl and Judith in someone else’s hands."

"Then let it be me. You can stay."

Rick smiled and for a moment it looked like it was just the two of them in there.

"I guess this is why I love you so much. But I know you don’t wanna go, you would have said something otherwise," he whispered, touching her cheek. "Everything will be fine, we are a strong group, we won’t let anything or anyone stop us."

As if suddenly the lights had turned on after an old play, Rick addressed Ezekiel. "What can you offer us?"

"Obviously not my personal help. I don’t feel well enough to go with you all. Besides, we are carrying out a few projects that need my supervision." He turned to look at Paul then. "I'm sorry about what happened at Hilltop, my friend, I know there's something else besides the guilt that's picking you up inside." He pursed his lips, as if they both knew what he was talking about. "But I can’t see how I can help you."

"Help us fill the gap we have. We have the loyalty," Paul said pointing to Daryl. "The courage." Rosita. "And now, with Rick, the determination."

"And where does that leave you, my friend?"

"I’m the moral support."

Ezekiel smiled.

"We need the knowledge; an engineer."

"I am the embodiment of knowledge," Eugene interrupted, sounding between surprised and offended.

"He means someone who knows how to hold a gun, Eugene," Rosita said with derision.

Ezekiel cocked his head, not taking his eyes off Paul. "And I suppose you already have one in mind, am I wrong?"

"No, you're not."

The king curled his lips again. "Tom is busy with the outpost right now."

"Come on, Ezekiel, you don’t need a fucking engineer for that."

"Mind your language, sir," Jerry said for the first time since they had arrived.

"Jerry…" Ezekiel sighed before returning his attention to Paul. "Yeah, you are right, I guess. I certainly have heard that your man has done a great work with yours."

Paul almost let a proud smile break the rigidity of his lips, but the annoyance he felt in his stomach slowed down any attempt of his body to relax.

"Well, it's obvious that I can’t make a decision for him, and I'd like to know what Tom thinks about all this. Jerry, please, go get him."

Finding Tom took Jerry more time than any of them would have liked to waste. Paul was not surprised, though, Tom could be anywhere, from working as an animal while helping in any of the tasks, to sweating in a remote corner for rather more pleasurable reasons.

After a few minutes of impatient waiting, Daryl lowered the seat and sat down beside him, not before making it clear how annoyed he was of all the fuss being made.

"Tom?" he asked warily. "Really? The arrogant asshole?"

"Yeah, that’s him. Look, I know you both didn’t have a good start—"

"Did _he_ tell you that?"

"He just told me that he met you and that you didn’t seem to be in a good mood. I accepted a long time ago that my boyfriend isn’t exactly the most sociable person around."

Daryl snorted loud enough for Rosita to give him a questioning look. Paul leaned toward him and lowered his voice. "Tom is good at what he does, he knows how to fight and he's a smart guy. And yes, maybe his mouth is bigger than his head, but I'm sure he'll be of great help."

Daryl didn’t bother to say anything else, and leaned back, putting his boots on the back of the seat in front him, next to Rosita’s head. She turned again. "Hey, asshole—"

The auditorium door opened then, and Jerry appeared with Carol and Tom following him right back. Jerry climbed onto the stage to stand loyally next to his king, but Tom stayed down and turned just enough to look at Ezekiel and the rest, while Carol greeted them all.

"How do you feel?" Carol asked Daryl, sitting down beside him.

Daryl shrugged.

"Is this a private party or something?" The confusion in Tom's voice left no trace of the mocking tone he usually adopted.

Without wasting more time than they’d already squandered, they explained why they were there. Tom settled in, sitting on the edge of the stage and listening carefully to everything Maggie and Rick had to say, with the occasional intervention from Eugene.

"What do you think?" Ezekiel asked when they had finished.

Tom thought about the plan for a moment. "Well, communication is one of the most important processes not only of human interaction but also of its evolution, no doubt, and linking the three communities could give us a great advantage with respect to any problem, besides whatever necessity or danger; it definitely would make us stronger. But of course, that's just the positive side of the theory, making it work is a much more complex issue, and while I agree that solar panels are the best solution, I think the real question we all should be asking ourselves is: will it be worth it?"

No one answered; after all, those who were going to risk embarking on the journey had already made their decision, so they all waited expectantly to hear his.

"Okay… who's going?" he asked instead.

Paul and the others raised their hands. Tom studied them all, starting with Rick, who didn’t seem to be a surprise for him. Then Paul, whom he greeted with a friendly nod. Then it was Daryl's turn, and Tom smiled. "Glad to see you again, _buddy_."

Daryl dropped his hand and looked away. As if he hadn’t noticed the gesture, Tom's eyes rested on Rosita then, his eyebrows rose with brazen admiration and approval. Paul shook his head even though he couldn’t help but chuckle.

"Have we met before, sweetheart?"

Rosita kept her bored expression unperturbed. "Who knows, it's hard to distinguish one ass from another in this place. Now, what if we leave all the bullshit aside and you tell us if you're fucking coming or not?"

"Do you really expect me to make a decision now?"

"Yes."

Tom murmured something. "When are you planning to leave?"

"We haven’t discussed it yet," Rick said, "but I guess in about three or four days. I think we shouldn’t let more than a week pass before we get going."

Tom snapped his tongue and glanced over all of them once more as he pondered his response. His eyes finally stopped at Ezekiel, who shrugged at an unspoken question, and for which he was clearly not convinced.

"Yeah, fuck it! Why not? I'll go."

"Are you serious?" Ezekiel inquired.

"Yes, I mean, we can die at any moment anyway so, if we do, at least let it be for something worthwhile, right?" He turned to address them. "I’m in."

 

***

 

The night was icy, even more than the night before, and although it didn’t snow, the wind that came through the high window, filling the dark and empty room with a whispering whistle, made him shiver a couple of times.

Paul moaned through his teeth, his numb fingers were barely able to work with the weed he'd gotten that afternoon. Though it wasn’t just the cold that paralyzed all his senses. Fucking hell, they were about to embark on a damn risky journey, and all he could think about was the unrestrained, chaotic sex session he'd had with Daryl the night before. And it was not the act itself that disturbed him, but the knowledge that he’d lost control without noticing it.

He was fully aware of it now, though, and while there was a part of him that was making him feel deeply ashamed, there was another that was helping him see things from a different perspective.

He didn’t hear the entrance door when it closed behind him and he only noticed Tom's presence when he cleared his throat before breaking the quietness with his smooth voice. "I knew I’d find you here," he said, coming up and sitting next to him on the wide windowsill. "I always knew you came here when you were looking for a moment for yourself."

"And I guess that didn’t hold you back, huh?"

Tom laughed. "I see you went to see Jimmy."

"He always has good things to offer," he said, putting the joint between his lips. In a second, Tom was offering him the lighter.

They shared the joint, smoking in silence for a moment. Paul was grateful. He was not bothered by Tom's presence; in fact, he’d never had a hard time opening up to him, even though Tom could be extremely straightforward and say what was going through his head, not giving two shits about whether it could hurt you or not. It was strange, but Paul actually liked that. Tom was honest, and he never hid the truth to make you feel better. He didn’t judge either, if he didn’t like you, he just wouldn’t bother wasting his time with you. Tom was pretty clear about what he wanted, and he lived his life without any kind of remorse. If you crossed his path, you had two options: join his carefree way of seeing things or get out of his way. In any case, he didn’t care.

"I'm sorry about what happened at Hilltop, it's fucking horrible," he said, as he blew forcefully on the cigarette and then handed it over to him. "It's hard to get used to it, right? I don’t mean seeing people die, but to assume that there are groups out there that can fuck everything up in the blink of an eye. If you think about it, in that aspect, the world hasn’t changed that much."

"I guess so."

"Are you okay?"

Paul sighed. "No, not really. But I have no choice but to deal with it."

Tom moved to lean his back against the jamb, one leg bent and foot resting on the windowsill while the other was on the floor. "Do you wanna know what I think?"

"No."

"I'll tell you anyway: you have to start thinking more about yourself, Paul, think about what _you_ need and less about the others. Hilltop depends on you too much, which is worrisome, and I'm sorry to say this, man, but to a great extent it’s your own fault. You have pampered them, and when things go bad they are incapable of accepting their part of responsibility because they simply think that they weren’t prepared to face it."

"Things have changed. Hilltop is better prepared now. I’m not saying there aren’t things that need to be improved, though."

"And of course you think it's your job to make that happen."

Paul shrugged. "I'm just trying to help."

"I suppose we all do. But, my dear friend, you shouldn’t forget that our quality of life has declined drastically while the chances of dying while peeing in the middle of the woods have increased considerably. So, I don’t know about you, but _I'm_ going to make the most of every single second I have in this miserable world."

Paul couldn’t contain his laughter. "Life’s easy for you, isn’t it?"

"It's not, but at least I try not to complicate it further."

Paul nodded, blowing a long, straight, steady stream of smoke and passing the joint to Tom. "I remember that time I brought you a bottle of vodka that looked like it cost an arm and a leg, and you kept repeating, ‘let's have a party!’"

"You have to take every opportunity that comes, and alcohol is much more fun when you’re in company."

"It's a good philosophy of life if you have the mental age of a fifteen-year-old."

"Ha! If I didn’t know you better, I'd be offended. But now tell me, is that the reason why you've accepted to go on this trip, because you just want to help?" Tom gave a few puffs and then offered him the joint again.

"Yes and no. Honestly, I need to get out of Hilltop. I used to do it more often in the past, and I liked it. But now—"

"Someone's holding you there, right?"

"Things have gotten easier to spend the time in the colony, that's for sure."

"I'm not gonna lie, I can understand why. I find him _very_ intriguing."

"Don’t make me cut your hands, Attah."

" _Uuuuh_ , you know you’ve crossed the line when surnames are pulled out. Don’t worry, man, my heart’s been stolen by Rose."

"Rosita."

"Yeah, right. Little Rose."

"I can’t wait to see her kick your ass."

"She definitely seems like a hard nut to crack—but that’s what turns me on, and anyway, sooner or later, everyone ends up succumbing. Even you did it, _Monroe_ ," he said, taking the joint and puffing on it. "We had a good time, you can’t deny that, and I wouldn’t mind to—"

"Okay," Paul said, cutting him off. "Listen, I never minded your big mouth, but for once in your life, Tom, be discreet."

Tom made an exaggerated movement with his head, as if the warning surprised him. "Oh, I see, he’s the jealous type. Already noticed at the outpost, honestly. But it’s okay." He moved two fingers over his mouth. "My lips are sealed, but let’s be clear, I’m only doing it for you."

Paul exhaled heavily as he placed the cigarette between his lips again. "I’m more than aware that his personality is ammunition for you, but I swear that if you go too far, I won’t stop him if he decides to break your jaw."

"I'll try, I'll try. But I won’t risk promising you anything." Tom rose and patted Paul's shoulder affectionately. "Calm down, man, I'm sure we'll get along well—oh, look, there he is; we were just talking about you."

Shocked, Paul turned immediately. Daryl was standing by the door with a hand still holding the knob.

"You know what?" Tom asked, approaching him. "All this is fucking insane—the trip, I mean. But I'm excited. I'll go pack my things."

"Don’t forget your make-up," Daryl growled.

"Buddy, I couldn’t go anywhere without my mascara!"

Silence was all that remained as soon as Tom's boots stopped echoing in the narrow walls. Even Paul had the feeling that the wind had stopped buzzing, as if everyone and everything was fleeing to leave them alone. It was stupid, but his heart began to hammer against his chest.

"Are we gonna make a habit out of this?" Daryl said after a moment, in that deep voice that seemed to be etched in the depths of his brain.

"What do you mean?"

Paul turned again to look at the black landscape, though his attention was on the steps that resounded on the stone floor.

"You hiding and me lookin’ for you."

"Well, it's not a great hiding place if everyone keeps finding me, don’t you think? Or maybe I'm not hiding, at all," he said, showing him the joint, then offering it to Daryl. "We might be living in the apocalypse, but even in this crazy world people can’t keep their eyebrows from rising when they see you with one of these."

"So you _are_ hiding." Daryl picked up the cigarette and gave it a couple of short, tentative puffs.

"Yeah, well, technically, you could say I am. But I’m not hiding from _you_ , and I'm sure that's what you meant."

Daryl nodded slightly, the smoke quickly got lost in the cold night air. He was only sitting a foot away and yet it felt incredibly far away.

It was ridiculous, but sometimes he was still surprised at how much Daryl's presence could affect him. He was sure he could be capable of sensing him even in a crowded room, aware that none of those present would be able to shake his world the way he did. It was overwhelming and exhausting at the same time. Especially now, that even in a room in which they were alone together, he felt as if they were surrounded by hundreds of invisible barriers preventing them from getting close once and for all.

Paul caught a furtive glance. In the middle of the night, only the bright red color revealed Daryl's features, and from what little he could distinguish, Paul saw that he was tired.

"What was yesterday all about?"

Paul hadn’t realized the time they’d been quiet until Daryl had spoken again. It was a good question, but he was not sure if he was in the mood to argue with Daryl about the conclusion he had reached.

"I don’t know," he said, taking the joint, knowing Daryl wouldn’t buy that answer.

"Bullshit. You wanted me to _hurt_ you."

"No, I didn’t—I knew you wouldn’t."

"You _wanted_ me to hurt you, Paul."

"I _knew_ you wouldn’t," he repeated, hardening his tone. "At least, that's what I hoped."

Daryl inhaled so hard that Paul thought he had drained all the air around them. He put the joint back to his lips because that was the best distraction he had in his hands, but his fingers were limp, and the sensation of impotence raced through his veins again.

He was tired too, he really was, but above all, he was tired of not being in control of this damn situation. Ben had always said he was a control freak, and he wouldn’t deny it, he liked to have everything well-ordered, in a perfectly organized way. To build a stable space in which he could be able to get carried away safely.

It was idiotic now that he thought about it. But he also realized that he’d erected this defense mechanism over the years, almost unconsciously; when he’d felt so lost and alone. A fictional bubble where he could feel safe, and which was downright broken right now.

He supposed that somehow it made sense that, of all the people who’d come across in his life, he would have ended up falling in love with Ben and then Daryl. Two people who’d also needed to take refuge from everything around them. And yet, the three of them had done it quite differently; after all, they were three different people who had faced the world in very different ways.

Tom had just told him that he had to think more about himself and what he needed. He considered it for a second and realized that all he needed right now was something as simple as crying, letting go of all the anger and anguish contained, something he normally wouldn’t, because, at the end of the day, that is not what you would expect from someone who’d accustomed everyone to an image of perfection and serenity.

He needed to scream and vomit all the venom that was consuming him inside like a disease that had become chronic, and be able to leave it all behind, to be able to breathe again. But above anything, he needed him. Daryl. A man who, ironically, had entered his world of perfectionism like a hurricane, shaking up everything, including himself, and for the first time, after a long while, he’d felt the freedom to abandon that feigned stability he had created to show himself as he was: someone with virtues, but also many flaws.

"After what happened—" he finally said catching his breath, surprised that his voice managed to sound smooth. "After what happened with Peter, I became an extremely apprehensive person. It’s not like I was hiding from the world, but I didn’t let anyone get close to me. I didn’t trust anybody. I always had the feeling that all the people that tried to have a conversation with me had some hidden intention, that they wanted something from me and the moment they got it they would kick me out and abandon me. So, to protect myself from the—probably imaginary—threat, I decided that I needed to be a step ahead of all of them. And, somehow, I became the person I was so scared of. I’m not saying I was using people, but I let them get close to get what I needed from them without allowing things to get complicated enough that they could affect me. So I ended up being surrounded by a lot of people, but, except from Martha who was always there, I was completely alone."

He paused, hurrying through the last remaining drags of the joint, then handed it to Daryl. "When Ben appeared, everything changed. We helped each other, even if he did it unconsciously. We both learned to trust." He exhaled, trying to control the tears beginning to cloud his eyesight and choke his throat. "I guess that's what happened yesterday. I know you'd never hurt me, Daryl, but I think there was a part of me that _needed_ to make sure of it." He struggled to make the following words sound calm and even, but failed. "I'm so sorry about everything."

It was strange, but he was grateful that Daryl said nothing for a moment. Maybe he had nothing to say anymore. What was he supposed to say anyway? So while he waited for Daryl to do something, even if it was only to get up and leave, he tried to normalize his breathing that had become heavy and hassled. The nerves however grew when the silence went on longer than he thought he could handle.

Suddenly, Daryl shifted, Paul didn’t dare to look at him, because even if it was more than just a feasible possibility, he was absolutely terrified of turning and seeing him leave, tired of this situation, tired of _him_. But then he felt him closer, Daryl’s hand reached for his, fingers entwining.

If anyone had asked him right then, Paul wouldn’t have been able to describe what he was feeling. Such was the whirlwind of emotions ravaging through his mind that he wouldn’t even have been able to pronounce his own name.

"Let it go, Paul, let it go for fuck’s sake. Scream, cry, do whatever you need to do, but let that shit out, or it’ll eat you up—it’ll kill you. And I ain’t givin’ a shit about what you made me promise—I ain’t ready to lose you."

Paul couldn’t look at him; he forced himself to look away to try to hide the sobbing that erupted from his mouth suddenly. He covered his face with one hand, but that didn’t seem enough, so he let go of the one Daryl was holding, trying to stifle his sobs somehow. His whole world crumbled, and nothing seemed to be a part of him anymore.

Daryl wrapped his arms around him, pulling him closer. Paul felt his breath and lips in his hair as he cried like a child in despair against Daryl’s chest.

They spent a long time like this until he managed to calm down. Paul pulled away from Daryl reluctantly and wiped away his tears with the back of his hand. Daryl moved closer, now fully straddling the windowsill.

"M’sorry about all the things I said—"

"I know, Daryl, you—"

"No, let me talk, let me—I need to say it. You do so many things for everyone, you've done so much for _me_ , and I—I ain’t sure what I'm doing, ain’t sure if I can give back anything. And when things got messed up, instead of being by your side—"

"Daryl—"

"No. No. I—I ain’t sure if I'll ever live up to it, being with you… Don’t know if I can give you what you really deserve, Paul."

Paul felt something alarming suffocate him inside.

"Ain’t sure if I can give you what you need. I hear you talk about Ben and I see good people like Alex, and I wonder, _why me_? A fucking redneck who ain’t sure about nothin’. You deserve so much and I don’t know if I can give you anything other than the shit we're going through already." He moved closer, putting his hands on Paul's thighs. "But I wanna try. I want _us_ to try, to start over again and forget everything. I know it ain’t easy, but I miss you, Paul, I miss your smile, I miss your jokes, and your… your—oh, fuckin’ hell, stop me before I make a bigger fool of myself."

Paul laughed. Yes, he did. And it was the most liberating and relieving thing he’d done in a while, even if the tears hadn’t yet disappeared. Then he remembered something, reached into the pockets of his pants and pulled out a pin.

"I saw this a few days ago, when I was here. Well, I didn’t see it, I stole it from the weed guy. Don’t tell him."

Daryl picked it up and a shy smile lifted the corner of his mouth. The pin was shaped like a roll of toilet paper with the caption: "SHIT HAPPENS".

"Okay, forget about the jokes."

They both laughed now, something completely bewildering after everything, but still a pleasant sound to hear.

"Seriously, Daryl, I don’t know what to do to get that absurd idea that you aren’t good enough for me out of your head."

"Maybe you just need to kick my ass again."

"Oh, well, I wouldn’t mind doing that." But just a second later, the smile that had appeared timidly in the corner of his lips vanished. "I love you, Daryl. I love you more than anything, more than I thought I’d be able to love someone again. And I miss you too. I'm ready to move on and forget all of this, because if there's something I've learned these past weeks, then it's that I _need_ you, Daryl, I need you by my side, and I want to be there for you too. Let me be there for you."

Daryl ducked his head and simply nodded, as if even after everything he’d already confessed, the words scared him.

"Hey, look at me," Paul said, placing a hand on his cheek.

Hesitating, Daryl raised his head again.

"Are we good?" Paul asked.

"Yeah… yeah. We’re good," he answered, then leaned forward and kissed Paul’s cheek, still wet with tears. "You're cold," he said, lowering his voice.

"I'm fine."

Daryl shook his head. "Sometimes, I wonder who's the idiot of the two. Let's go to our room."

Paul didn’t complain, because, in fact, it _was_ getting cold. So they closed the window and went down the stairs in silence. Halfway through, Paul asked Daryl to go back alone and wait for him in the room, and although he didn’t look very convinced, for once, Daryl didn’t grumble and kept walking.

Minutes later, Paul joined him in the room they’d been assigned; it was of a decent size, and even had a small bathroom. One of the many luxuries they’d been working on over the past few months.

Daryl stood by the window; Paul watched him, wondering if this was all, if they could really put an end to this nightmare once and for all.

"Is that what you went lookin’ for?" Daryl asked, pointing to the bottle of lubricant he held in one hand.

Paul smiled, threw the bottle on the bed, walked around it, and kissed Daryl, then again, until he responded, his hands sliding around his hips.

"Is this okay?" Paul asked against his mouth.

"Yeah."

"What do you wanna do, sleep, talk…?"

Daryl looked at the bed. "Well, I think your intentions are pretty clear."

"Brought it just in case, but we don’t have to; I'm open to anything else."

Daryl caught his lips in a hungry kiss as his only answer. Two steps separated them from the bed, but when they finally reached it, the two were already half undressed. It was as if after so long, they couldn’t have enough of each other. Paul's entire attention was definitely absorbed by the feeling of Daryl’s body pressed against his—holding him, kissing him, moving his hips against his. It felt unbearably good, even through all the clothes they were still wearing.

They fell on the bed and neither bothered to hold back the moans as their bodies collided together. _Hell_ , Paul knew he’d missed him, but it was overwhelming to be able to feel it on his own skin. Daryl was here, now, and he couldn’t help wanting more, much more.

Daryl shifted, rolling them over the bed until Paul was beneath him, and kissed him again. He moaned, feeling Daryl shudder in response, their legs tangling as Paul pushed against him. Eluding another kiss, Paul leaned forward, brushing his lips against Daryl's ear. "Fuck me."

Daryl pulled away immediately, staring at him, probably searching in his eyes any alarming warning. But he didn’t find any; Paul wanted this like he wanted his next breath. Daryl gasped and his arms tightened around him.

"Is the door closed?" he asked with his ripped voice.

"Yes."

Daryl stared at it for a moment anyway. Then he got up from the bed, muttering something, and placed the only chair in the room just below the knob.

"Are you afraid they'll come to check if we're killing each other?"

"Maybe."

Paul laughed, but then sat up straight on the bed. "Wait a minute," he said, before Daryl joined him again. "Sit on the chair."

Daryl frowned. "What?"

Paul sat on the edge of the mattress. "C’mon, sit on the chair."

As if he had no other choice, Daryl set the chair in front of the door and sat on it. Paul came over and bent down to kiss him firmly.

"You’re fuckin’ crazy," Daryl purred against his lips, but obviously excited.

Paul smiled again. "Well, you knew that already." He began to undress himself. "In fact, I'm sure that was the reason we met. _That_ , and my persistence." All of Paul's clothes ended up in a pile on the floor, leaving him completely naked. "Is that a problem?"

"Not at all," he said, struggling to say the words.

"Good."

Paul picked up the lube and sat straddling Daryl's thighs, facing him, and with one hand began to unbutton what was left of Daryl's clothes with painstaking efficiency. Then he opened the bottle, poured a generous amount of lube into his hand, and began massaging Daryl's cock with long, slow strokes.

They didn’t stop looking at each other for as long as it lasted, not saying anything, like they had gone mute—or perhaps it was that after all that had happened the last days, and all that had been said already, there were no more words to speak.

Then, Paul kissed him again. Daryl opened his mouth eagerly, letting him do as he pleased, and only pulled away when they couldn’t deny more air to their lungs.

Paul pressed his forehead against Daryl's, his eyes slightly open as he lowered slowly down to meet him. He took his time, slowly adjusting bit by bit, relaxing against him, using up all the self-control both of them had while doing so. It took a while, but the two moaned hard when Daryl was finally fully inside him. Daryl arched his back in a desperate movement. God, it felt so good. Nothing mattered anymore.

After a moment of quietness, Paul's hands clung to Daryl's shoulders before he began to move: a few slow thrusts to start, then faster, harder, and deeper. Paul caught Daryl's mouth again as he held his hips firmly.

With the passing of the minutes, the gasps became increasingly uncontrollable, but they still remained surprisingly discreet. Only the sound of their bodies moving against each other managed to pierce the barrier of false serenity they seemed to have built around them.

After a few messy kisses, Daryl's mouth moved to focus on his throat. Paul closed his eyes and concentrated on all the feelings that seemed to be marking every corner of his body with fire. Then he pressed a hand on the door and moved the other between them to stroke himself.

"Paul."

"Shhhh…"

Inexplicably, he was enjoying the silence, but even though he’d managed to remain calm until now, he couldn’t contain himself any longer when he felt Daryl's burning breath against his shoulder, trying to suffocate a cry as he came inside him. Daryl gripped him tightly and Paul didn’t fight the pleasure any longer, letting himself be carried away, joining that ecstasy that felt real between them again.

Paul wrapped his arms around Daryl's shoulders, and they held each other, savoring with their lips the salty taste of sweat on each other's skins, until they were both breathing normally again.

Later, clean and dressed, Daryl sat in the same chair, now placed next to the only window in the room. Paul joined him, leaning on the sill. The outer landscape remained the same, black and serene, but Paul knew that the two had their attention placed beyond the walls surrounding the Kingdom, even beyond the ghostly city of Washington.

"That idiot is right, it’s fuckin’ insane, what we're gonna do," Daryl said, laying a hand on Paul’s knee, caressing it unconsciously, his gaze was still out there.

"It is, but someone has to do it."

"And I guess we’re the only fools always willin’ to."

"Probably." Paul smiled and Daryl looked at him, smiling back—it didn’t last long on his lips, though.

"It's weird, I know we can die, all of us, and yet I can’t wait to go."

Paul stretched out an arm, pushing the strands of hair aside that hid Daryl’s beautiful blue eyes. "Me neither."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this ends here. I'm sorry for not continuing with the second part, but I feel neither encouraged nor inspired. Thanks to all of you who have been reading and commenting on each chapter, your feedback but above all your understanding has been very important.
> 
> I want to thank especially [AbigailHT](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AbigailHT/pseuds/AbigailHT) for always being there. I know this saddens her more than anyone else, but I have no motivation to continue writing this story. So it's better to leave it here, with an open end, but an end after all.
> 
> ♥

**Author's Note:**

> \- PART I will end with chapter 19 (17)  
> \- We are still working on PART II. Chapter count will be updated when PART II is posted.


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